


Out of Time

by UmbreonGurl



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Reincarnation, Self-Insert, Spoilers, Unreliable Narrator, an SI fic, but i love stupid isekai so its all gucci, no beta we die like Glenn, si more like stupid isekai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmbreonGurl/pseuds/UmbreonGurl
Summary: It figures, that even when given a second chance, her time would be just as limited. (A Lysithea SI-fic.)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 313
Collections: Quality Fics, Suggested Good Reads





	1. Chapter 1

Her death is something she’s been expecting for a long time. It’s not a surprise. The amount of time she slept kept increasing and increasing, her immune system kept getting worse and worse, and the hospital visits kept getting longer and longer. 

“You’ll get better soon,” they said. “And then you’ll be able to change the world with that smart brain of yours.”

She nodded along, smiling and laughing, when in reality, everyone knew it wasn’t true. She has had to miss so much school, and her once perfect grades are only barely kept above a C by the work she manages to get done from bed in between naps, when her head throbs so much she can hardly think.

She was always tired, and when she was not working or eating, she was sleeping. She’d sleep, and sleep, and sleep. She’d catch another infection, another disease, and spend a few months fighting that off, before she’d catch another and the cycle would repeat over and over again.

She kept on sleeping, and it went from eight hours a day, to ten, to twelve, to fourteen, to sixteen. Day by day, the clock counted down, and the hours of sleep kept counting up. It kept on counting, until one day, she hit twenty four, went to sleep, and didn’t wake up.

Until she did.

Lysithea von Ordelia’s survival is nothing short of a miracle. 

Calling it survival is a bit of a lie, though. In reality, Lysithea von Ordelia died on a bloody, rusty table, and someone else took her place, and nobody seems any the wiser. Strange men _—mages, something in her mind tells her—_ are delighted at her lack of pigment, and they run test after test in their excitement.

She’s not unused to prodding and poking hands, but the ones from her old life were far gentler, far kinder, rewarded with small sweets and smiles and hugs. Her mother and father were constantly by her side, bringing her treats, her older sister dropping by with a new puzzle or game for them to play.

There is none of that here. 

Here, she is not patient, but subject.

They go about their business, and she has no energy to protest. A fire runs through her veins, burning and burning, turning her to ash from the inside out.

“Two crests,” they say, excitedly, at first. “We’ve succeeded!”

She did not ever used to know what a crest was, but now, she does. She is Lysithea and Lysithea is her, one mind, one body, one soul.

Lysithea has two crests, Charon and Gloucester. One minor, one major.

Lysithea used to have none. 

They have her run, jump, have her perform all manner of physical feats, running and jumping until her bones feel as if they are breaking and her lungs are on fire. She coughs, and there is blood coating her lips, and her ears are ringing, and the blood drips down to the floor, drop by drop.

Their excitement falters, and they continue poking and poking, prodding and prodding, until they come to a conclusion that causes them to lose almost all of their interest entirely.

“She will likely only live roughly five years more, at most. Perhaps less.”

She doesn’t know what she did to deserve a second chance at life, but it’s ironic, in a way, that no matter who she ends up as, her time is always limited.

Five years.

* * *

The mages leave shortly after their discovery. 

Behind them, they leave a scared little girl, a broken family, an estate haunted by the horrors that went on there. Behind them, they leave empty bedrooms, filled with empty beds and toys whose owners are no longer around to play with them. 

_Hers—no, mine—would have been the same._

The first thing she does when she finally gets to return to her room is to get rid of all her toys. She doesn’t have enough time anymore to spend any of it playing with toys.

She grabs a small cloth doll and throws it into the corner. She finds a small box of wooden blocks, and picks one up, turning it in her hands.

_The waiting rooms at the hospital always used to have ones like these._

She adds the box to the pile in the corner. She finds a stuffed rabbit, a ball, and another doll, and puts them into the pile too. She throws the toys into a pile, one by one, doll after doll, block after block. She pauses, briefly, when she picks up a stuffed bear. It has beady, black, button eyes that stare at her, unmoving, unblinking, and fur the same pale white as her hair. 

_Beary, his name is Beary. He’s my favorite._

As the pile of toys by the door continues to grow, Beary is gently set aside atop her bedsheets. 

A servant— _Samantha, her name is Samantha—_ peeks her head in the doorway as she hears the commotion. 

“Miss Lysithea, what are you doing there with all your toys, dear? You should be resting!” says Samantha. She glances over at the messy pile of toys and frowns. “They were all so neatly organized and put away before.” 

“I’m not tired. And I don’t want them anymore,” she says. “Could you please get rid of them?”

“Are you sure, honey?” Samantha frowns, glancing over at the blocks. “You always used to love playing with these.”

“I don’t want them anymore,” she repeats. “Someone else will like them better.”

Samantha kneels down and places a gentle hand on her shoulder, giving her a look she is all too familiar with. Pity.

_She is small, so small, seven years old._

_My birthday is Septem—no, it’s not in September anymore—is the 28th of Pegasus Moon._

“I’m sure someone else would indeed love your toys, miss Lysithea. And that’s very kind of you to want to give them to other people. But are you sure you do not want them?”

“I’m sure,” she echoes, getting frustrated. She knows what she wants. She knows what she wants, and nobody seems to get that. “When do my lessons start again?” 

“Not for a while, dear,” says Samantha. ”Your parents wanted to give you some time to recover, after everything.”

She doesn’t have time to sit in bed and twiddle her fingers.

“Will you ask Mother and Father if they can start my lessons again sooner?” she says, before her train of thought is interrupted by a cough. Samantha frowns.

“I’d really like for things to go back to normal,” says Lysithea.

“I know. I would too. We can talk about starting your lessons sooner if you still feel the same way tomorrow,” says Samantha. “For now, you should be in bed. You will never get over that cough of yours if you don’t get your rest.” 

Samantha gets up and gently nudges Lysithea back towards the bed. 

“But-”

Samantha cuts her off, pointing towards the bed.

“No buts, young lady. We’ll worry about it tomorrow. Bed.” 

Lysithea reluctantly gets back into bed, and lets herself get tucked in by gentle hands. Beary rests under her arm. 

Samantha leaves, and Lysithea stares up at the ceiling, lost in her thoughts.

_You don’t understand. None of you understand. With every tomorrow, the clock counts down._

Five years.

She has no time to waste.

* * *

Mother and Father reluctantly agree to start her lessons back up again when Lysithea does not cease asking. 

School is something she has always excelled at. And while the history, the geography, and the culture may be different, she dives into it with no less vigor than she used to study Ancient Rome and Egypt with. 

Math is the same as it always is and always has been. It’s something that comes easily to her, which makes sense, considering she’s already spent many years mastering these skills. Granted, she’s no mathematician, but she’s definitely far above simple addition, subtraction, and multiplication. 

And it doesn’t take long for her tutor to notice this, either.

The addition and multiplication sheets are quickly replaced, and she works her way through various levels of content until she reaches concepts that were more recent before, a bit more fuzzy. She starts to falter once they reach integration, series, and matrices. Calculus was never her favorite subject, and Linear Algebra always made her want to hit something. It makes sense that she didn’t remember much.

But Teacher is impressed nonetheless.

She sits and reads as Mother and Father meet with Teacher.

“Is something wrong?” says Mother, worried. 

“No, no, nothing is wrong,” says Teacher. “In fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

“The opposite?” replies Father. “How so?”

“Your daughter is a prodigy when it comes to mathematics,” Teacher says. “I should still be able to instruct her in it, but I’ll need to prepare some different content than I had originally intended to use. In terms of History and Geography, she still has a ways to go, but the level that she’s at in mathematics is… well, it’s unheard of.”

Lysithea can feel the adult’s gazes turn toward her, but she does not look up from her book.

“Unheard of?” says Father. 

Teacher nods. “In terms of her mathematical skills, she could easily match a student entering the Officers Academy.”

Mother and Father glance at each other, with a pensive expression. “Ah.”

“Have you ever considered giving her an education in magic?” says Teacher. “Because unless she plans to be a scholar in the future, there likely isn’t much point to continuing her mathematics studies unless she wishes to study magic as well.”

“Ah, no, we hadn’t really considered it,” says Father. “Due to her frail condition, I’m not sure if it would be a good idea.”

At this, Lysithea looks up.

She loves history, and math comes to her like water, but nothing catches her attention quite the same way as _magic._ There was no magic, before. It is something completely new, a new field of knowledge for her to learn and conquer.

“I’d like to learn magic, Father,” she says.

Father looks at her, clearly disapproving, and she looks right back, determined and unwavering. She is not asking.

“Should you wish, I can teach her magic instead of mathematics. I specialize more in reason magic than faith magic, and as magical theory utilizes a decent amount of mathematics, I suspect she will excel at it. As to having magical aptitude, that is something else entirely, but to even start is all theory work anyways.” says Teacher. “It would give her practice with the mathematics she already knows, as well as introduce new concepts and ways to apply them.”

Teacher looks as if he was going to continue, but gives a sheepish smile. “Pardon my rambling. Your daughter is a brilliant girl, and I tend to get a bit overexcited when it comes to magical theory.”

“Do not worry about it, we are not bothered,” says Father. “I appreciate all the information. If I were to have you teach Lysithea magic, you would only be doing bookwork, correct?”

“That’s correct,” says Teacher. “It takes a lot of theory work before one can even _think_ about moving on to cast a spell. And with folks her age, it’s advised to keep them to a theory-only curriculum until they get a bit older, due to the danger involved in novices learning to cast spells. Will you be having me switch her to magic, then?”

Teacher looks to father and mother, and father and mother look, in turn, to her.

_Is this really what you want?_

She simply looks at them and says one word.

“Please.”

She starts learning the theory behind reason magic the next day.

* * *

Magical theory is an entirely different beast than anything Lysithea has ever tackled before. It is similar to something out of a fairy tale, but with enough restrictions and complicated calculations to make it less magical than it seems.

Energy is energy. It cannot be created or destroyed, only harnessed and transformed. Magic is just the same. 

The energy for a spell comes from one of three places. Yourself, your environment, or some combination of the two. You must know how to harness it, how to channel it, how to convert it.

Fire magic is exactly like its element. It is wild, and powerful, a force of nature that if not kept in check, can retaliate spectacularly on the caster.

Thunder magic is wild, but in a different sort of way than fire magic. Where fire is largely contained, but needs direction, thunder magic stays contained only so long as you force it to be. The moment you let it go from your control, it will explode in a brilliant flash of sparks, reaching out for anything in its vicinity.

Wind magic requires a softer hand than either thunder or fire magic. The way you guide it must be gentle instead of stern, or the wind will not listen to your call, blowing around you instead of blowing for you.

Dark magic is a far less studied one of the bunch, due to the difficulty involved in performing the calculations for even beginning level dark spell circles. Dark magic is far different than the others in composition. If not handled correctly, the damage to the caster is far more severe. But if the mage knows what they are doing, the sheer offensive power of a dark mage cannot be matched.

There are other types of magic, of course. Ice, for example, is another form of magical energy that tends to fall under the umbrella of reason magic.

But Teacher said he cannot help her with ice magic, as it is one type he is not quite familiar with. While dark magic is rare, ice magic is just as much so, if not more.

And outside of the realm of reason magic is faith magic. But for now, Teacher says she should just focus on reason magic. 

“If you wish to learn faith magic later on, having a solid foundation in reason magic theory will help you significantly. But learning both at the same time for a first time magic student can be quite overwhelming, so for now, we will stick to reason magic.” says Teacher. “I am not as familiar with faith magic, but should you get to the point where it would be suitable to teach you some, I can help you with the basics.”

Magic is full of rules and contradictions to said rules. For every rule, there is an exception, and while it makes things incredibly frustrating, Lysithea is no less enamored by it. 

Like most things, magic is sequential. Before you can master Thunder, you must first produce sparks. Before you can cast Fire, you must first learn to light a flame on your finger. Before you can cast Wind, you must first be able to capture the breeze in your palms. 

Miasma is one of the few you cannot do in steps. You must go straight from theory to casting, and if you do not know what you are doing, the recoil from an improperly done spell circle can give any novice mage a rude awakening.

But she has never been one to back down from a challenge. 

She is nine when she masters the theory behind her first reason spell, and memorizes the spell circle composition for Thunder.

By the time she is nine and a half, Lysithea masters the theory for Wind and Fire as well.

And by the time she is ten, she has long since mastered the theory behind her first dark magic spell, Miasma.

* * *

She spends much of her free time studying. The library becomes one of her favorite haunts, full of old books and dusty tomes just waiting for someone to read them. And Lysithea reads almost every single book she can get her hands on.

_The History and Origins of the Leicester Alliance_

_Reason Magic: Elements and Their Differences_

_Dark Magic Theory and Spell Circle Composition_

_Noble Houses of the Leicester Alliance_

She reads everything from textbooks on magical theory, to journals of her great-great grandparents, to history books. She reads every genre of book, but the ones she constantly finds herself drawn to are the ones on Crests. Crests, these mysterious entities that grant people various amounts of boons, from feats of strength, to stamina, to magical fortitude.

She is constantly searching, scouring every page, every word, every _letter_ , for anything that could help her push back the clock a bit. For the most part, she is unsuccessful in her efforts.

There are no passages in _Crests and their History_ about people losing their pigment. There are no passages in _Introduction to Crestology_ about coughing up blood or about collapsing in the middle of the day. The only mention she finds of anything similar to her situation, about having two crests, is in _Crestology and its Applications._ And it’s not anything helpful, either.

“It is impossible for someone to have two crests,” it says. “The strain on the body would kill someone from the inside out.”

It is impossible to come back from the dead, too. But here she sits, an impossibility in all forms. She died, and now she is Lysithea von Ordelia. 

Lysithea von Ordelia has two crests, and less than two years left.

Tick tock.

* * *

She is eleven when a particularly bad flu season hits Ordelia territory especially hard, her included. She sleeps, sleeps so much it reminds her of what used to be.

_Wake up, you have no time to waste sleeping. There’s no time, no time, no time._

Mother and Father put her lessons on hold, much to her dismay. But no matter how much she protests this, they will not budge.

She isn't a baby, she can work from bed. She can still think, not perfectly well, but she can. 

She instead settles for asking Samantha to bring her stacks of books from the Library. The Library’s collection continues to grow ever larger as she spends her pocket change on more books.

She is in the middle of reading a particularly riveting fantasy novel about vampires (Samantha absolutely refuses to bring her anything even remotely nonfiction) when she hears a knock at the door.

“Miss Lysithea, are you awake? It’s time for your medicine,” calls Samantha.

_Shit. Samantha will be furious if she finds me awake reading again when I promised her I’d rest._

She quickly closes the book and shoves it under the many pillows that everyone has been insisting she use.

“Yes, I’m awake,” she responds. “Come in.”

Samantha opens the door and walks in holding a small bottle of medicine. She hands it to Lysithea, who downs it with a cringe. It is the foulest herbal concoction Lysithea has ever tasted. Truly, this stuff makes Nyquil seem _delicious_ in comparison.

“Couldn’t they make this stuff taste any better?” asks Lysithea, gagging a little as she quickly tries to chase the taste of it away with water.

“I’m afraid this isn’t made to taste good, Miss Lysithea,” says Samantha with a chuckle. Samantha runs glowing hands over Lysithea’s chest and she can feel some of her aches and pains fade away. The burning in her chest calms slightly, and the throbbing of her head stops.

“Samantha,” says Lysithea. “You’re good at faith magic, correct?”

“Yes, I am, that’s correct,” confirms Samantha. “I suspect that’s part of the reason your mother and father hired me to look after you.”

Lysithea pauses for a moment. 

“Do you think you could teach me?” she says. “I’m sure I’d be able to get the hang of the theory rather quickly, as I’m doing quite well in reason Magic theory.”

“Faith magic, while still magic, is quite a bit of a different process than reason magic.” Samantha frowns.

“I can learn,” says Lysithea. “I’m good at learning.”

_I need to learn. It might help me live just a little bit longer. I’m running out of time._

“I know you are,” says Samantha, “But for right now, you need to be focused on getting some rest and feeling better.”

She glances over at the haphazard pile of pillows behind Lysithea and frowns.

“You should sit up for a while,” says Samantha, “Let me help you get propped up.”

Lysithea wants to protest, and she watches in horror as Samantha picks up the pillow that was hiding the novel.

“You weren’t sleeping before I came in, were you,” says Samantha, as she gently sets the book aside on the nightstand and props Lysithea up on the pillows.

“Miss Lysithea, you really need to rest. If you stay up reading all the time, then you won’t get better, and you won’t be able to go back to lessons for longer.”

“But-” protests Lysithea, but Samantha hushes her, gathering the empty bottle and picking up the book. “For now, you rest, and I’ll bring back the book later. It will still be around after you take a nap.”

“But I’m not tired,” she says. 

She is, but she’s used to working through being so tired she can hardly think. It’s nothing new.

“You haven’t given yourself the chance to be,” says Samantha. “Just close your eyes, and your body will take over and you will fall asleep.”

“I can have the book back after?” asks Lysithea.

“You can have the book back after,” confirms Samantha.

“And then you’ll ask Mother and Father about faith magic?” 

Samantha gives her a soft smile, brushing a strand of hair out of Lysithea’s face and gently tucking it behind her ear.

“After you get better.”

Lysithea closes her eyes. She can hear the door shut quietly as Samantha leaves. Lysithea doesn’t quite realize how tired she feels until she starts to doze, and quickly falls asleep.

Samantha never does teach Lysithea faith magic, even after she recovers. Mother and Father won’t let her. No matter how much Lysithea asks, Mother and Father do not budge on the prospect, already worried she is pushing herself far too hard.

They aren’t going to change their minds anytime soon, so she stops asking.

But if she happens to pick up and read through a few books on the fundamentals of faith magic, well, what Mother and Father don’t know won’t hurt them.

She has one year left.

* * *

Lysithea casts her first reason spell, Miasma, at eleven and a half. Teacher is furious at her for even trying, as she wasn’t supposed to move on from theory anytime soon. But if she continued at Teacher’s pace, she may never get to cast a single spell.

Even though her condition hasn’t gotten much worse than it was before, she is still somewhat worried. If what the mages said is correct, she has about half a year or so left. 

She doesn’t care if casting a spell improperly at a young age can adversely affect you later on. She isn’t going to have much of a later on, so what does it matter? (She also isn’t going to do it wrong, so there’s nothing to worry about anyways.)

She wants to make the most of the time she has left.

When she casts Miasma at a tree in the garden, Lysithea feels alive for the first time in a long time. Her blood rushes, and the storm that lies dormant in it bursts to life, rushing through her veins and out of her hands. 

The spell circle forms in front of her, and the sign of the Major Crest of Gloucester flashes briefly, before a rush of dark energy explodes from her fingertips and rushes towards the tree.

The tree wilts and smokes, and she watches it with glee. 

She tries it again, and again, until the tree is nothing but a sizzling husk where a plant used to be.

She feels a bit guilty for killing the plant, yes, but the guilt is far outweighed by the sheer thrill of being able to finally do something, anything, other than sit and bed and read.

Her greatest curse is also a blessing.

She has _power_. And she’d be a fool not to use it.

* * *

Her twelfth birthday comes and passes without much fanfare. (And more importantly, without her death.)

Much to everyone’s surprise, and her parent’s relief, her condition hasn’t changed much.

Samantha says its a sign that the goddess is smiling upon them all. It’s nothing short of a miracle, she says.

Is it?

Lysithea will never say it, but she does not believe her survival is a blessing from the goddess. Everything she has done, everything she has made, has been with her own effort, her own two hands, not by the hands of a deity that may or may not exist.

She is her own savior. She’s not stupid enough to doubt the power of willpower and the human spirit. Before, people were able to make miraculous recoveries, to succeed in the face of great adversity, and to not only _survive,_ but _thrive_. And the same thing is true here.

Lysithea is only alive because she _refuses_ to simply lay down and die, to let the mages who ruined her second chance control her. 

With regular healing sessions, they are able to reduce some of the symptoms. The coughing fits are far less frequent, her energy level is slightly better, and she is nothing if not determined to keep it that way.

With the doomsday deadline no longer looming over her head, her parents have been far less overprotective, recently. 

They still worry, of course. Everyone is well aware that even though the five year estimate proved to be inaccurate, her time will run out eventually, sooner rather than later.

Crests can’t be removed, as far as she knows.

(And despite what people say, she knows for a fact that they _can_ and _are_ able to be given to those without. Blood reconstruction surgery is horrible, and unethical, but not impossible.)

Her crests are a part of her, as much as her arms and legs, embedded in the very blood that runs through her veins.

And each one has its own feel. Gloucester is strong, but in a precise, controlled fashion. Charon is like a storm, much like the same way thunder magic is known to shock anyone who unsuccessfully attempts to tame it.

They are two sides of the same coin, pushing and pulling like the tide, and she is caught in between them. And eventually, the waves will suck her in and drown her.

She doesn’t know how many years she has left anymore. In a way, it’s just as discomforting as it is comforting. Ignorance is bliss, but it also brings with it uncertainty.

* * *

She is fourteen when Teacher is no longer able to help her with magic anymore.

“I can’t teach you anymore,” he says.

Her thoughts race, with all the possible reasons why.

_Am I not good enough?_

_Do Mother and Father want me to stop?_

Teacher places his hands upon her shoulder, and smiles at her, as if reading her thoughts.

“You did nothing wrong, Lysithea. We’re just reaching a level of magic I’m not familiar enough with to teach,” he says, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

_I did nothing wrong._

“You’re an absolutely brilliant girl, and might I say, you are the best student I have ever had.”

“But if you can’t teach me anymore magic, then what do I do? I don’t want to stop learning magic,” she says.

“Have you ever thought about attending the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery?” says Teacher. “While currently, you’re likely a bit too young for it, the education one can get there is truly top notch in almost every field, including magic. Their library is filled to the brim with rare and valuable texts, and given your enthusiasm for learning, I’m sure you’d do quite well there.”

In truth, she hadn’t thought about it. For a while, she thought she wouldn’t live long enough to ever attend. (Not to mention Mother and Father were always far too nervous about her health to even consider sending her away to school.)

The Officers Academy is not a tutor. It is a real, formal school. And not only that, a private school. It’s not cheap. 

Lysithea is well aware of her family’s noble status. She’s not poor. In fact, she’s far from it. But she still despises the majority of most of the nobles. Their attitudes towards people without crests, towards the poor, even towards _each other_ tended to be nothing but disgusting, and she hates to even be _associated_ with people like that.

But she is also aware that here, not everyone is fortunate enough to get tutors, or an education at all. While public schools might not have always been well funded, or perfect, they were _there_. People had a chance, however small.

Many people here do not. She’s taught several of the servant’s children basic mathematics and reading in her spare time, and has had a few of them say on several occasions that “she’s not like the other rich people.” She smiles and laughs, but it makes her so _uncomfortable._

Fodlan is a shitshow. Politics always are, it seems, no matter where you are. People will be people, and there will always be classist, racist assholes. Despite how much she wishes everyone could just get along, it’s a lot to ask when most places don’t even have anything close to plumbing. Fodlan has magic, and is far ahead of before in some ways, but is far behind in others.

Private schools are always full of rich kids, and Lysithea suspects the Officers Academy won’t be much different. From what she’s heard, there are some commoner students at the Officers Academy, but they are far outnumbered by those of noble blood and deep pockets.

The Officers Academy is not only a school primarily attended by the rich, but it is also operated and run by a religious organization. It’s less than ideal, but it’s the only option she has. Magic is far too interesting to simply stop learning it, and she is far too good at it to simply give up and accept that she’ll never surpass the level she’s at now.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me convince my parents, would you?” she says.

Teacher smiles. 

“I’d be happy to,” he says. “There is nothing that would please me more than to help you reach the potential we all know you have. You’re a smart girl, Lysithea. It’d be a shame to not encourage that.”

She begs and begs and begs, and after a while, finally manages to convince Mother and Father to at least let her take the entrance exams. They reluctantly agree to enroll her on the condition she passes. Everyone knows she will, but she suspects this is just a way for Mother and Father to comfort themselves with the idea that there’s a chance she will fail and won’t leave home.

But even though they are worried about her health, they really have no reason to be. The Officers Academy, while it is a fantastic academic institution, also has the advantage of having many, many practitioners of advanced faith magic. Were she to have a flare up of symptoms, someone there would easily be able to help.

There’s no formal age limit on when you can attend the Academy, even though most people do not attend much before seventeen or eighteen. But she knows all the content required to attend, if not more. She has no time to wait until she is seventeen.

She takes the entrance exams shortly before her fifteenth birthday, and passes with flying colors. 

Mother and Father enroll Lysithea for the upcoming term, as agreed, although they do so reluctantly. 

She is set to be one of the youngest students in the Academy’s history.


	2. Chapter 2

The Golden Deer house is an extremely mixed bag compared to some of the others. Both the Adrestian Empire’s Black Eagles and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus’ Blue Lions are almost entirely made up of nobles, aside from one or two retainers or commoners.

The Leicester Alliance’s Golden Deer, however, have everyone from the new heir to the Riegan household, to a merchant’s son, to a simple village girl, to her.

Granted, there are still more nobles than commoners, but the Golden Deer have far more commoners than any other house.

While she appreciates the relative diversity of her classmates, they still infuriate her.

Claude is far too nosy for his own good, and she does not trust the way he watches everyone. He is constantly analyzing, watching, waiting, planning.

Hilda has immense potential, but puts no effort into honing it. She instead chooses to con everyone _else_ into doing her work for her. 

It’s not the fact that Hilda is lazy that Lysithea has an issue with. At least, not on its own. Lysithea understands the need to conserve energy more than most. When you are tired all the time, you must carefully plan how you spend what little energy you do have.

But Hilda isn’t tired. In fact, she seems perfectly healthy and full of energy. It’s one thing to be lazy when you have a legitimate reason to be, it’s another to be lazy because you _can._ When Lysithea works her ass off to be the best she can be and still has to worry about dying before age 20, she has to admit it rubs her the wrong way to see someone wasting their time on frivolous activities.

Marianne’s lack of self confidence starts to become a bit annoying very quickly. She’s a perfectly nice young lady, brimming with potential. She clearly has a knack for faith magic, but is easily held back by the lack of faith she has in herself. 

Lorenz _Hellman_ Gloucester is a whole different can of beans. (Do they even have cans of beans here? Probably not.) He’s infuriatingly like many of the stuck up rich kids that she had gone to school with before, constantly flaunting his status, bragging about his good breeding, and attempting to use it to meet girls who are “also of fine breeding.” Not only is his behavior rude, he doesn’t seem to _understand_ that it is. And somehow, that’s even more infuriating.

In a way, it’s humorous, but more in the sad way than actually funny. She’s just grateful he hasn’t seen it prudent to try to make a move on her, yet, as technically she _is_ of noble blood. (Despite the fact she does not feel like it.)

Lysithea hasn’t talked with Ignatz for long enough yet to really form an opinion on him. From what she can tell, he seems nice enough, but she will hold back her judgement until she has a chance to work with him. 

Raphael, from what she can tell, is a meathead. Quite literally, actually. She doesn’t doubt that he’d be able to eat an entire turkey in one sitting if given the chance, from how enthusiastically he has talked about food in the conversations she’s overheard him having. But like with Ignatz, she hasn’t spent enough time in his company to really form an opinion on him. 

When Lysithea first meets Leonie, she breathes a sigh of relief, because finally, someone _normal._ But then Leonie opens her mouth, and proceeds to never stop talking about Jeralt ever again. Lysithea then retracts her statement. Nobody here is normal. 

Including her.

Especially her.

* * *

When the day for their first lecture arrives, Lysithea arrives exactly ten minutes early and starts to unpack her things at her desk.

She gets a glance from Claude as he walks in three minutes later, and she gives him a polite nod as a greeting, which he returns. Once her class materials are out and organized, she pulls out a book and begins to read.

She can vaguely hear the sound of the rest of the class filing in, but she ignores it, instead putting all her focus into her book.

She keeps an eye on the clock, glancing up every few minutes as more and more students keep making their way in. 

It’s now five minutes past when class was supposed to start.

Their professor is late. 

Lysithea frowns.

Another minute passes, and Lysithea continues to grow more impatient.

She can overhear Lorenz having a conversation with Claude about something, Ignatz and Raphael are amicably chatting, and Hilda is doing what appears to be painting her nails in the back.

It isn’t until fifteen minutes after class is supposed to start that the door slams open, and a woman who she assumes is their professor stumbles into the classroom.

She looks hungover, with shadows under her eyes, and a disheveled appearance. Lysithea closes her book, and slips it back into her bag.

Lysithea notices out of the corner of her eyes that Hilda has not stopped, and that she is, in fact, painting her nails. She almost wants to scoff. What’s the point of spending a bunch of mommy and daddy’s money to go to school to just sit in the back of the class and paint your nails? It’s a waste.

Lysithea is already not impressed with her professor, but her opinion of the woman goes even further down the drain when she pulls out a flask and takes a swig of something she’s pretty sure isn’t water.

“Hello all, I’m your professor, Manuela Casagranda, and class is cancelled,” says their new professor. “Read chapters one and two of _The Basics of Battle Tactics_ and write a summary on them for tomorrow.”

Lysithea shares a disbelieving glance with Ignatz and confirms that, no, she wasn’t hallucinating. Their new professor had just showed up to the first day of class fifteen minutes late, hungover and disheveled, then went to the front of the class and proceeded to cancel it. And all of this after making her wait for fifteen minutes to show up.

Lysithea is _furious._

“What do you mean class is _cancelled_?” she hisses out.

_Think before you speak, Lysithea!_

Manuela shrugs. “Exactly what I said. No class today. Go play, go sleep, go read, I don’t care. Do whatever it is you kids do in your free time these days,” she says with a shrug, waving a hand. “I’m in no state to teach today, even if I wanted to.”

“I think we’re aware of that,” says Lysithea. “We have _eyes._ But I didn’t come to Garreg Mach just to have class be cancelled on the first day because the professor has a drinking problem.”

Manuela raises an eyebrow.

Ignatz looks like he wants to be anywhere but where he is, clearly made uncomfortable by Lysithea’s outburst.

But Lysithea doesn’t care what other people think of her. She didn’t come to Garreg Mach to make friends. She didn’t come to Garreg Mach just to have class cancelled on the first day. She came to Garreg Mach for an _education_ , damn it, and she’ll get it if it's the last thing she does.

She glares at Manuela, not backing down. Manuela sighs.

“Fine, you want class so badly, then?” says Manuela. “Everyone get out some paper. Pop quiz.”

She can hear the audible groans of her classmates, and can practically feel the glares burning through her back.

She doesn’t care.

* * *

Somehow, even after practically throwing a fit about class being cancelled and making it clear that she is what many would call a “teacher’s pet” type (for most teachers, anyways), Hilda seems to think it is a _great_ idea to try to get Lysithea to do her homework for her.

Lysithea is in the middle of studying in the library when Hilda strolls in and deposits her things with a loud thump at the seat next to her.

“Hey, Lysithea,” she says.

“Hello, Hilda.”

Hilda opens up her book, and they read next to each other in silence until Hilda lets out a loud, dramatic sigh.

Lysithea does not look up from her book.

She’s well aware of what Hilda is trying to pull. She had enough people try to pull the same thing, before. 

“Hey, you’re smart, would you happen to have the answer to number forty five? I just want to check my work,” they’d say, when in reality they hadn’t done it at all, and were simply trying to con her into giving them the answer. It’s funny, as they usually preface the request with something along the lines of “you’re smart,” and then try to con her, implying they think she’s stupid at the same time. 

A few minutes go by, and she hears Hilda let out another loud, dramatic sigh.

This time, Lysithea makes the fatal mistake of looking up and making eye contact. She also makes the even deadlier mistake of asking what’s wrong. (Because there is a small chance that it is something else, and Lysithea isn’t heartless.)

“Is something wrong?” asks Lysithea, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” says Hilda, resting her chin on her hands. “The homework is just so _hard_ , you know?”

Lysithea frowns. “Our homework for today was largely just to read chapters from the book. Do you not know how to read or something?”

Hilda shakes her head. “Oh, no, it’s not that. I can read.” She looks down towards the open textbook in front of her and grimaces. “Just… not _that_ . Like textbooks are so _boring_ , you know?”

Hilda looks over at Lysithea with a grin, and she suddenly feels like she is a gazelle who has been cornered by a pride of lions on one of those nature documentaries she used to watch, before. 

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have yours done by any chance, would you, Lysithea?” says Hilda. 

And there it is. 

“No,” she replies, lying through her teeth. “I haven’t done it yet.”

“Really? That’s so unlike you!” Hilda pouts. “Normally you’re so on top of things, and like, always have your homework done super far in advance!”

Hilda leans over, and notices a small notepad sticking out of Lysithea’s bag.

“Oh?” she says, “What’s that? Are those your notes? I hope you don’t mind if I just take a quick look-“

“No, Hilda, wait—those aren’t my notes,” says Lysithea, reaching to grab it and put it away, but Hilda is faster and grabs it first, holding it up out of her reach.

“Let’s see,” says Hilda. “Dear Diary… aww, Lysithea, that’s so _cute_! You keep a diary?”

At this point, Lysithea feels like she is going to combust on the spot. She’s sure her face is bright red. She tries to snatch the diary out of Hilda’s hands, but Hilda is fast, and quickly, yet again, moves it out of her reach.

“I met some of my classmates today,” reads Hilda. “There is a guy named Raphael who is super buff. His shirt is far too small for his size, and it looks like it is going to fall apart at any second. He reminds me of one of those WWE wrestlers I used to see on TV occasionally.”

Hilda frowns.

“What does these even _mean_ , Lysithea? WWE? TV? You making some sort of secret code or something?”

Lysithea makes another frantic grab for her diary.

“That’s none of your business,” says Lysithea.

“Ooo, I wonder if you put something about me in here!” says Hilda, flipping through the pages, before finding what she was interested in with a grin. “Let’s see…”

“Hilda reminds me of Sophie, a lot,” recites Hilda. “Ooo, Sophie, that’s a cute name. She- _hey!_ ”

Lysithea finally manages to grab her diary back from Hilda’s hands. 

“I was reading that!” protests Hilda, with a frown.

“And you weren’t supposed to be,” replies Lysithea. “That’s private.”

“Fine, fine,” says Hilda, disappointed. “Why don’t you show me where your notes are, then?”

“I already told you, I haven’t done the homework.”

Hilda claps and grins. “Perfect! Then we can do it together!”

“Actually, I don’t have my book with me,” she says. She does, but Hilda doesn’t have to know that. “I forgot to bring it.”

“No worries,” says Hilda, “We can just share mine! That won’t be a problem at all.”

She smiles at Lysithea, and there is only one thing that she can make out from all the thoughts rushing through her head.

_Shit._

“Well, I was actually planning to get some of the Magical Theory work done,” says Lysithea, attempting to do something, _anything_ , to get Hilda to leave her alone. “I was going to do the Fodlan History homework later.”

Hilda smiles. “Oh, that’s perfect! I’m atrocious at Magical Theory. All the math and the spell circles and stuff just go _wayyyy_ over my head, ya know? You’re really good at magic and stuff, right? We can work on it together, and you can help me with it!”

Whoever said a few little white lies never hurt anyone was a dirty liar. (No pun intended.) She is _suffering_. 

At the end of the day, Lysithea ends up with two finished copies of the homework. 

* * *

When it comes time to turn in their homework, Hilda shoots her a wink from across the classroom with a thumbs up.

Hilda looks at her in a way that reminds her of the way, before, as a child, she had used to look at McNuggets. Her mother had always called it the McNugget stare. 

“You’d look at those McNuggets like you were the queen of the world,” she would always say. “As if you had everything and nothing could go wrong. You were never happier than when I let you get McNuggets for dinner.”

Lysithea would be lying if she said the pleased smile Hilda is giving her isn’t the McNugget stare. The problem is, though, that this time, she’s the McNuggets. And she doesn’t know what’s more disturbing, the fact that she still remembers the McNugget stare to this day, or that Hilda is looking at her like that in a world where there are no McNuggets.

Professor Manuela is not your typical professor. To put it bluntly, she’s a hot mess. But Lysithea’s initial frustrations with her are lessened slightly once it’s revealed that she knows what she is talking about.

When she starts to lecture on faith magic, one of her specialties, Lysithea starts to see the reason why she was hired. It certainly does help things that she runs the infirmary, and Lysithea is not one to bite the hand that feeds her, or in this case, teaches her the skills to make the fire in her lungs, in her bones, ease slightly.

Professor Manuela knows faith magic inside and out, and Lysithea picks up the basics with ease. While Marianne is far ahead of the rest of the class, including Lysithea, Lysithea would argue that she is right behind her. Marianne had likely had previous instruction with faith magic, as she already knew some basic spells.

But Lysithea’s favorite part of the day is when they divide up to focus on their individual skills. When they divide up into separate, inter-house lectures to focus on their specific skills of choice, Lysithea finds herself in a classroom full of largely Black Eagles. 

Among her classmates for the reason magic period are Linhardt, Hubert, Dorothea, Annette, Mercedes, and much to Lysithea’s dismay, _Lorenz_. 

Lorenz, because he is somehow tactfully tactless, does not seem to get that she wants absolutely nothing to do with him. He can’t seem to process the fact that just because she is from a noble house of the Leicester Alliance, it does not mean that she wants to rub elbows with every Alliance Noble at school.

She didn’t come here to socialize, to network for the future. The future, for her, is far too unsure. All she can really afford to worry about now is the present. 

Professor Manuela’s lecture that day runs a few minutes over, and she has to rush to make it in time to Professor Hanneman’s reason magic period.

By the time she arrives, most of the seats are already full, aside from one in the back next to Linhardt, who appears to be fast asleep at his desk.

“Is this seat taken?” she whispers, but receives no response. She takes that to mean that the seat is empty, and quickly sets down her things and pulls out her notes. Linhardt cracks an eye open to glance at her, seemingly woken up by the thud of her book hitting the table, before closing it again when he deems what she was doing not worth staying awake for.

Honestly, Lysithea doesn’t get why he even bothers to come to class, if he is not going to pay attention. It’s a waste of time. She understands being tired, but if you are that tired to where you cannot stay awake in class, why even show up? It’s far more disrespectful to the professor to show up and sleep versus just stay home.

But from what she knows, this is pretty typical for him. He comes to class, sets down his things, gets a book to use as a pillow, and sleeps. And far more surprisingly, professor Hanneman doesn’t seem to scold him for it. 

She guesses he isn’t concerned, so long as Linhardt keeps his grades up, which Lysithea begrudgingly acknowledges the fact that Linhardt does know the content. (He _is_ from an Adrestian noble house, so she wouldn’t be surprised if he, too, received private tutoring from a young age.)

* * *

Her first real problem in trying to keep her head down arises on the day they start casting in class, and the Major Crest of Gloucester decides to rear its big ugly head in front of everyone when she demonstrates her Wind spell. 

The glow of her crest appears in front of her, and her Wind spell zooms forward from her hands and slices right through the dummy instead of merely just damaging it a bit.

There are gasps and she can head the rest of the class muttering, and Lorenz looks downright gobsmacked. Even Linhardt, who is normally asleep, is reluctantly awake to see the commotion, as he was next in line to demonstrate his Wind spell. 

She stammers out apologies. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break it,” she says. “I can pay to replace it, and-”

Professor Hanneman puts a hand on her shoulder with a gentle smile. 

_He knows, he knows, he knows, of course he knows he studies crests for a living. You’re stupid for thinking you could hide this forever, Lysithea, when you can’t even control it._

“There is nothing to worry about, Miss Ordelia,” he says. “We have many many training dummies for this exact reason. They’re meant to be broken.”

Lysithea nods, but her heart still races in her chest. His words say nothing, but his expression says everything. _Curiosity_.

The curious glances she receives from Linhardt, Lorenz, and even _Hubert_ of all people only serve to make her anxiety worse.

There’s too many eyes on her. Too many, too many, and she is so small, trapped, cornered.

She goes back to her dorm as soon as the bell rings, practically running as fast as her legs can take her. Her lungs are burning, and her legs are burning, and everything hurts, but she just needs to be _alone_.

She drops her things haphazardly on the floor and practically slams the door behind her. 

She focuses on her breathing. In, out. In, out.

She collapses into bed, and stares up at the ceiling. 

_Coming to Garreg Mach was a horrible idea._

_But it is far too late to change now._

* * *

She’s started to study in her dorm far more often, since the Hilda incident. Despite the loss of easy and convenient access to the library’s shelves of books, it’s far easier than risking Hilda constantly trying to nag her into doing work that by all rights, she should be doing on her own. Because despite what Hilda says, Lysithea knows that Hilda is more than capable of doing it herself. 

But truth be told, since the casting incident in class, she has been nervous to head outside. She still goes to class, yes, as coming here to simply hide in her room all the time would be a waste of not only her time, but also her family’s money.

But after class? After she fetches food, some books from the library, and everything she might need, Lysithea goes right back to her dorm room and stays there. She _knows_ how some people get about crests. Some will no longer see her as the little girl who studies hard, but instead as the little girl with the Major Crest of Gloucester. 

_And the Minor Crest of Charon._

They will attempt to woo her, to try to get her to favor them for political gain, and she knows for a fact that Lorenz has been far more annoying than usual ever since he found out, constantly butting in to ask about her family history. 

She’s pretty sure he thinks she is some sort of bastard child of the “ _great and noble Gloucester_ _line_.”

She wishes that were the truth. But at the same time, she doesn’t. Lorenz, for as much of an annoyance as he is, is far better than what she has heard of his parents. Or at least, from what she has heard of his father. 

Count Gloucester is well known for being an ambitious man, and from what she has heard of him, she doubts he is a stellar father, either. He does not seem the type of man to encourage his son to follow his passions. He does not seem the type of man to read his son stories before bed, tuck him in with a kiss on the forehead at night, and say “I love you” before he leaves for work every morning. 

Her new father rarely did this, but Lysithea doesn’t fault him for it. She can imagine it’d be hard to get close to a daughter you know could die at any moment. It hurts less, that way. 

But her old father used to hold her hand as he’d walk her into elementary school, would read to her, would tuck her in at night when she was young, and would constantly pepper her with love and support and “I love you’s”. 

She misses him.

* * *

Her new strategy of going straight home works rather well until she packs up after the next day’s class and is stopped when Professor Hanneman addresses her.

“Miss Ordelia, do you have a moment to speak with me after class?”

_No. No, I don’t have time, go away, I don’t want to talk to you._

“Yes,” she hisses out. “I have a moment.”

She awkwardly stops putting her things away and waits as the rest of the students file out of the classroom.

She awkwardly makes her way up to his desk, and the classroom is empty aside from her, him, and her heartbeat racing in her ears.

“Were you aware you had a crest, Miss Ordelia?” asks Professor Hanneman. “It’s perfectly okay if you didn’t know, as typically House Ordelia is not a noble house known for crests.” 

He’s right. House Ordelia isn’t known for crests. It isn’t known for much at all, these days, aside from the involvement in the shitshow that went down with House Hrym.

She doesn’t know how to respond. Does she lie? Does she tell the truth? She’s trapped in a lose-lose situation and isn’t sure which option is worse.

Hanneman takes her silence as confirmation.

“Was there a reason you didn’t make the school aware?” he says. “I know that among many of the students, their crests can be a rather sensitive subject, but it _is_ typically required for the school to know if you have one.”

“I don’t have _one_ ,” she blurts out.

_God damnit Lysithea, think before you speak! Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

There is a brief moment of silence as Hanneman processes what Lysithea just said.

“But that means…” he pauses, putting the pieces together. “Ah. I see. That’s… How bad are the side effects?”

“Fine. They’re under control,” she lies. She had a coughing fit just last night. He doesn’t have to know that. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Lysithea can feel her eyes start to water, and clenches her fist as the stress finally reaches its peak, and she falls apart. She sobs.

“Please, Professor Hanneman, _please_ don’t tell anyone.” she says, “I’m begging you.”

“Lysithea,” he says, “your secret is safe with me. If anyone were to find out I hid this, I would be branded a traitor, but what nobody knows won’t hurt them, yes?”

“You won’t tell anyone,” sniffles Lysithea. “Not even the archbishop?”

“Not even the archbishop. I won’t tell a soul,” confirms Hanneman. “But I need you to be honest with me. How bad are the side effects?”

Lysithea sniffles. “Bad. According to some people, I should have died at twelve.”

Hanneman comes over to the other side of the desk, and sits down at the seat next to her.

“Lysithea, I need you to listen to me, and to listen to me closely.”

Lysithea looks up to meet his gaze.

“Now, I’m definitely no Manuela, but I do know enough Faith magic to get by. If your symptoms get bad, come and see me and I will see what I can do. But I cannot help you if you do not let me.”

He hands her a handkerchief, which she uses to wipe her eyes.

“You do know my primary field of study is crests, yes?” he says.

She nods.

“The more you tell me about your situation, the more I might be able to help. I’m assuming you weren’t born with two crests?”

“No,” she confirms, “no I wasn’t.”

She pauses for a moment, before her brain to mouth filter once again decides to shut off.

“Why are you helping me? Willing to keep this a secret? You could get in huge trouble,” she says. “The Church of Seiros is not kind to traitors.”

She feels a hand upon her shoulder.

“Some people may disagree with me, but I am of the opinion that doing the right thing is more important than following the rules. You’re one of my best students, and I wouldn’t be able to call myself a proper teacher, or a proper scholar, for that matter, if I didn’t do my very best to help each and every student I teach.”

* * *

Lysithea is still on a bit of a stress high as she leaves the classroom. 

Her cough has calmed a bit, with a small short healing session doing wonders on her lungs. She’s still not thrilled about how today went, but things could have been way worse. 

As she walks back to her dorm room, she is stopped by _Linhardt_ , of all people. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, continuing on her way. 

“Yes, actually,” he replies. “You can.”

At the next words he says, she swears her heart almost stops.

“You have two crests, don’t you?” he drawls. His tone is very clear that though it is a question, he is _telling_ , not _asking_.

She takes it back. This day could not _possibly_ get any worse. She stops. 

_Deny it, deny it, deny it._

“You haven’t told anyone, have you? Who told you?” she hisses.

_Shit. How does he know? How does he know? God, she’s such a screw up, had she just paid a tiny bit more attention when casting that Wind spell sh-_

“Nobody told me,” says Linhardt. “But you just confirmed it yourself. And no, I haven’t told anyone. That would make things rather troublesome, don’t you think?”

“So what if I do have two crests?” she says. “Why do you care?”

_There you go again, speaking before you think. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!_

He shrugs. “Mmmm… I don’t. But I do find it interesting. Crests are a passion of mine, one could say. And everything I have ever read says that you,” he says, pointing at her, “are an impossibility.”

It’s impossible to be born with two crests. It’s a well established fact that anyone who knows _anything_ about crests is well aware of. And if he is truly as passionate about crests as he says he is...

“Am I?” says Lysithea. “If I were truly an impossibility, would I be standing here before you?”

“That is a good point,” says Linhardt. “But you weren’t born with your crests, were you? That’s the loophole. Everything I read always said someone can’t be _born_ with two crests, and that if they did have two, they would die rather quickly.”

Lysithea brushes past him and continues on her way before stopping again when Linhardt follows. 

“You cough a lot,” he says.

“Yes,” she confirms. “I do. What of it?”

“How long?” he asks.

“How long what?” she says. “How long have I been _dying?_ How long left _until_ I die? You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Lysithea, I didn’t mean-”

She cuts him off. 

“You didn’t mean what? To butt into my personal life? To confront me about things I clearly wanted to keep secret? It’s a bit late for apologies, Linhardt.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” says Linhardt. “Unless you want me to, that is, but considering your hostile behavior, I’d assume you wish to keep it secret.”

“You assume correct,” says Lysithea. “So then if you assumed I wanted it to be kept secret, why confront me about it?”

“I was curious,” he replies. “As I said, I find crests to be a fascinating field of study. The mere fact you have two crests implies that there is a method to give people crests and-”

Lysithea clenches her fist. “Yes, there is a way. And you know what it is, Linhardt? Human experimentation. That’s the method.”

Linhardt frowns. 

“Are you really that unhappy with your crests?” he says. “I know several people who would die to have two crests.”

“And I know several people who _did_ die for it, Linhardt. It has a cost. I _am_ dying to have it. Quite literally. I don’t know how long I even have left, at this point. I’ve far outlived the initial estimate.” She laughs, a painful, bitter chuckle. “Have you no empathy? Am I just some intellectual curiosity to you?”

“I apologize,” he says. “That was a rather poor choice of words.”

Lysithea crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow.

_You think?_

“Do you ever wonder if there is a way to have two crests without side effects?”

“Of course I wonder,” she replies. “I wonder every single day what it’d be like to not have to worry about dying every time I wake up.”

“Is it guaranteed you will die young?”

“No,” she says. “But nobody has lived long enough to prove otherwise. I’d far rather be rid of my crests altogether.”

“That…” says Linhardt. “Might be possible one day. Eventually. In theory, if there is a way to give someone a crest, there should also be a way to remove one.”

_A way to remove one._

“What is it, exactly, that you want from me?” says Lysithea. She’s done beating around the bush.

“Mmm… nothing, really. I just find you interesting.” 

At first, she thought he was an asshole, a lazy bum who slept through class because he could. But now, she realizes that he’s more like a socially stupid grad student than an asshole on purpose. 

He probably is up until 3am researching his passion project, and she was just unfortunate enough to line up with the very thing he is intellectually curious about. It would certainly explain why he was always sleeping, and how his grades are still good.

She can’t say she’s happy about him knowing about her crests. If he was able to figure it out so easily, who is to say that others cannot do the same thing?

“You just find me _interesting?”_ she echoes.

He nods and gives her a smile. “Yes, exactly. I’m so glad you understand. I’m looking forward to a productive relationship.”

He offers her his hand to shake, and she takes it.

She has a feeling that this is going to be a strange friendship. 


	3. Chapter 3

No matter her reservations about studying in the library, she can’t seem to avoid the necessity of having to go there whenever she wants to look at some of the rarer texts that they don’t allow outside. 

Luckily, Hilda seems to have given up on trying to con her into doing her work after Lysithea made it far too difficult to be worth her while. But one can never be too careful, so she still hurries on her way to and from the library.

On nights when she can’t sleep, there is a desk in the corner of the library that is her safe haven. It’s out of the way of most everyone, so even the few students that come in late at night don’t tend to bother her. 

People have stopped gossiping about her having the Crest of Gloucester, for the most part. Much to her relief, It’s become old news, and people have far more interesting, far more current gossip to worry about. 

At night, the path to the library is dark, lit only by the light that peeks through the windows of the nearby buildings and the moon. Some part of her knows that there is nothing in the dark that can hurt her, but that does not mean she likes it. 

She closes her eyes, and she is seven again, running and running, never fast enough, she needs to be faster. She feels hands, can see the masks, and-

She opens her eyes, and looks up at the stars. They are so clear, here. Before, with the lights of the city, they were almost impossible to see.

She can find the big dipper and the little dipper with ease. It is a different place, with different rules, but the stars that watch over the night remain the same. (At least, she’d like to think so.)

She is too busy looking at the sky to realize that someone else was in front of her (to be fair, who would expect anyone else to be awake at this hour?) and she runs right into Professor Byleth.

Her books go flying out of her arms and onto the pavement. 

“I’m so sorry, Professor,” says Lysithea. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“It’s alright, Lysithea,” says Professor Byleth. She looks unphased by the whole incident, not even slightly ruffled. “Are you okay?”

“I am fine,” she replies.

“How come you are up so late?” says Professor Byleth. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

_ I could ask you the same thing. _

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Figured I’d go do some studying.”

“I’m sure Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman would far rather you get adequate sleep than spend the whole night studying,” says Professor Byleth. “They speak very highly of you.”

Lysithea crouches down to pick up her books, and Professor Byleth does the same. 

“You don’t need to help me,” says Lysithea. “It was I who ran into you, after all.”

“I know,” responds Professor Byleth. “But I want to.”

Professor Byleth holds two of the books in her arms.

“You were headed to the library, correct?” she says.

“Yes,” responds Lysithea. “I was. I was going to return these books and perhaps pick up a few new ones.”

“Great. I’ll come with you.”

Lysithea frowns. 

“Ah, that’s not necessary, I can do it myself.”

“I know.” Professor Byleth shakes her head. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. It’s awfully late for a young lady to be out and about alone, and even in the monastery, you never know what might happen. If I were to let you go off alone and something were to happen, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. This is for me, not for you. I know you are more than capable.”

It’s obvious that Professor Byleth won’t be changing her mind, so Lysithea relents.

“Okay.”

Professor Byleth is mostly silent as they walk side by side towards the library, and Lysithea is grateful. She is in no mood for idle chatter. She won’t admit it to anyone, but having the company is just a little bit nice.

* * *

When it finally comes time for the mock battle, it is clear that the Golden Deer are hopelessly, miserably, outgunned. Professor Manuela is many things. She is a teacher, a singer, a physician, but she is no tactician. Not in the same way Professor Byleth is. Claude is smart, yes, and a decent tactician, but he is no match for Byleth either. 

Ignatz, Hilda, Lorenz, and Claude are the four members who end up on the battlefield. Whoever decided to put her on the bench was a fool. Without her, they have no magic users on the field aside from Professor Manuela, and Professor Manuela cannot be everywhere at once.

Claude’s plan is solid, but not perfect. They wait and use the cover of the trees to attempt to hold the others back, assuming the Black Eagles will be preoccupied with the Blue Lions, and then they can come clean up after they finish fighting.

Unfortunately, for them, the Blue Lions didn’t seem to get the memo that they were supposed to be focused on the Black Eagles, and make a run for the Deer first instead.

It doesn’t help that the Black Eagles are  _ stacked. _

Hubert and Edelgard are offensive powerhouses, and Linhardt trails behind to heal any wounds they may get from anyone who even manages to get close to them. And to top it all off, Ferdinand (von Aegir, can’t forget the von Aegir) sweeps the flank with Professor Byleth, making quick work of anyone in their path.

That is why it is no surprise to Lysithea when she watches the Black Eagles make quick work of the opposing teams.

It’s honestly pathetic, how little magical resistance the majority of the Golden Deers have. (At least, the ones on the field.)

Between Hubert, Linhardt, and Edelgard’s assault, they didn’t stand a chance. She honestly thinks it's a miracle they lasted as long as they did, all things considered. 

It’s no wonder Professor Byleth used to be called the “Ashen Demon.” She’s a  _ monster _ on the battlefield. She, unlike pretty much every student here, has experience. Studying can only do so much, there’s some things you can only learn by  _ doing _ and battle is definitely one of them.

As they walk back, Lorenz complains about how Claude did not accurately follow Manuela’s plan, and Claude retorts that his was better, and it takes every  _ ounce  _ of self-restraint she has not to snap at them both to shut up.

As she glances over her shoulder, she can see Linhardt draped over Caspar’s shoulders, asleep, and Edelgard seems to be deep in a conversation with Professor Byleth.

She locks eyes with Hubert, briefly, and quickly turns her head back to face forward. She doesn’t like the way he looks at her. She doesn’t like the way he looks at anything, really. He has a creepy air about him, and Lysithea doesn’t like it. 

It’s a long walk back to Garreg Mach, and despite what she’d like to think, she’s not in great shape. But it’s not like she can do much about it, considering if she pushes herself too hard physically, her lungs start to burn and her head starts to throb.

With each step she takes, the burning in her lungs gets worse, and she pauses briefly as she breaks down into a coughing fit.

She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe, and her lungs are burning, and everything hurts and hurts and hurts.

She can hear people calling her name, but it is all a blur.

“Lysithea, are you okay?”

What a stupid question. Does she look okay? No.

She barely manages to gather enough energy to bring a glowing hand to her chest, and the burning in her lungs numbs just enough for the coughing to let up. She feels someone place a hand on her shoulder, and she shrugs it off.

“I’m fine,” she hisses. “Don’t touch me.”

She is fine.

She  _ is. _

She has to be.

* * *

She is extremely tired the next morning. She gets up on time, somehow, and manages to get her uniform on and papers organized to leave her dorm at the normal time. She shows up to class on time, exactly ten minutes early, right on schedule.

Unfortunately, she is just tired enough to where she doesn’t pay attention to which classroom she is walking into, and only realizes she is in the wrong classroom when she hears Professor Byleth call her name.

“Lysithea,” says the Professor. “Did you need something from me? You’ve never come to me before class like this before.”

Nothing wakes her up faster. She can practically feel her cheeks burning, and she scrambles to pack up her things. 

“Ah- no that’s not it.” Lysithea shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Professor, I must not have been paying attention this morning to what classroom I was going to. I ended up here by mistake. I’ll be out of your hair shortly.”

As she scrambles to put her papers back into her folders, the next thing Professor Byleth says makes her pause.

“You don’t have to leave, if you don’t want to,” she says. “You’re a star student, and you’d be more than welcome in the Black Eagles, should you ever feel so inclined to switch.”

She had never really considered the idea of switching classes before. She vaguely was aware that it was an option, yes, but she hadn’t really ever considered it. While Professor Manuela is—she begrudgingly admits—a good teacher, professor Byleth is intriguing. But as far as Lysithea knows, Professor Byleth does not specialize in magic. So Lysithea isn’t that interested—at least, not enough to want to switch classes.

“I’d have to think about it,” says Lysithea. “Truth be told, I hadn’t even considered the idea of switching classes.”

Professor Byleth nods. “Of course. I just figured I’d put the offer out there. You’re quite the talented mage, and I’d be honored to have you as my student.”

_ Talented. _

Lystihea knows that it's supposed to be a compliment, that she should be beaming, should be pleased. But some part of her feels like she is taking credit for something she should not be.

Is she really talented, when she simply had a head start on everyone else? Is she really talented, when she is an impostor in someone else’s skin? Is she really talented, when she only got to where she is through hard work and sheer luck? Lysithea is a fraud and a fake, and she is the only one aware of it.

“Thank you, Professor,” responds Lysithea. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” says Professor Byleth. “Have a good day.”

“Thanks, you too,” she replies, having finally gathered everything up into her arms, and scrambling out of her seat, through the desks, and right smack dab into someone else.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she says, scrambling to pick up her things, which had scattered all across the floor. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I ran straight into you like a fool.”

“Not to worry. Are you alright? Here, let me help you.”

Gloved hands join her own in picking up scattered papers, and Lysithea lifts her gaze from the red carpet to find herself face to face with princess Edelgard von Hresvelg, house leader of the Black Eagles.

“Your name is Lysithea, correct?” she says, as she places the papers on top of the pile in Lysithea’s hands. “You’re in the Golden Deer, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” she says. “I wasn’t paying attention this morning and walked into the wrong classroom by accident. Again, I am so sorry for running into you like that.”

She pauses for a moment. “...And making you pick up my papers for me.”

Edelgard shakes her head. “You didn’t make me do anything, I chose to help you myself. You need not worry. It was no trouble.”

Edelgard looks Lysithea over and frowns, likely noticing the quite large shadows under her eyes. 

“You look rather tired. Perhaps you should go rest,” she says. “I’m sure your professor won’t mind you missing one day of class if you are sick.”

“I’m not sick,” replies Lysithea. 

_ Not in the way you are thinking. _

“I’m more than capable of going to class,” says Lysithea. “I’m just tired.”

She pauses, briefly. “But perhaps… after class, I will consider taking your suggestion and getting some rest.”

Lysithea glances at the clock, and sees there is only five minutes left until class starts.

“I’m so sorry, but I do really need to get going,” says Lysithea.

“Perhaps I shall see you around,” says Edelgard. 

“Perhaps,” says Lysithea, as she hurriedly walks out of the Black Eagles classroom. She quickly heads straight for the Golden Deer’s classroom, to the comfort of her own desk chair. (It’s not  _ her _ desk, per se, but everyone sits in the same spots every day, so it might as well be.)

Claude looks up at her with a curious glance. 

“You’re later than usual,” he says. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she replies. “I simply woke up a bit late, that’s all.”

“Makes sense,” replies Claude. “Off day?”

“You could say that,” she replies.

They’re both well aware that she’s bullshitting, but neither push the topic further. They have far more important things to do. 

* * *

Their first class mission is rather uneventful, all things considered. They are tasked with protecting a merchant caravan on their way to Garreg Mach, and Raphael and Ignatz strike up easy conversation with the merchants as they walk. 

The nicest thing about this job, though, is that she doesn’t have to walk. As one of their few healers, (well, someone who knows enough faith magic to heal up a scrape, anyways) she gets the privilege of getting to sit in one of the carts. Lysithea also suspects it’s partially because Professor Manuela has seen her get coughing fits when she is too physically active, but she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

All things considered, it is a rather peaceful journey. Lysithea is glad she brought some books with her to read, otherwise she would have likely been bored out of her mind. She has never been one for chatter, and were something to happen that would require her attention, she could set her book down and be ready just as quickly as if she didn’t have it. 

One of the biggest advantages to being a magic user is that you do not have to waste time unsheathing your weapon when you  _ are _ the weapon. At the end of a battle, you do not have to polish your fingertips until they shine. (You do have to wash them, though.) All you have to do is keep well rested, regain your energy, and maintain your studies, and you should be in tip-top shape for the next one. 

She has made great strides in her reason magic studies since coming to Garreg Mach. She’s now well on her way to mastering her second dark magic spell, Swarm. But it’s not enough. She has so far to go, and she’s not sure how much time she has left. She needs to work harder, work faster, work  _ better _ .

“You have a bright future ahead of you, young lady,” they say. 

If there is a bright future ahead, she has no place in it. Despite Linhardt and Professor Hanneman’s theories, they are only that. Theories. And what point is there putting hope in something for it to not work? She tried that, before. It didn’t stop anything.

Hope is powerful, yes, but not even hope can stop the sands of time from flowing. Hope is powerful, but it does not change what is and always will be. 

Theories are nothing without results, and she is nothing without them either. 

The merchants think she is adorable. They coo over her, and pat her on the head like the child they believe her to be. She has no energy to correct them, and simply takes the sweets they offer without a word. 

Her sweet tooth from before is something that seems to have remained the same. Sugar helps her think, helps her focus, and more importantly, it’s delicious. If anything, her sweet tooth now is  _ worse _ than it used to be, and she indulges far more often when sweets are sometimes the only thing she can stomach after coughing fits when her mouth tastes like iron.

She knows she’s gotten several strange looks from some of her classmates when she goes to the dining hall and loads her plate with nothing but sweets. Lysithea knows it isn’t healthy. She’s well aware of this fact, but she doesn’t care. It’s something small, and in the long run, it’s harmless. She’s not going to live long enough for her sugar intake to matter anyways. 

Tick, tock.

She doesn’t know how many years she has left on the clock, but it keeps counting down.

* * *

When they are finally given permission to start hiring and working with battalions, Lysithea almost does a double take at one of the names on the list of nearby mercenary companies.

“Yeet Mercenary Company,” it reads.

Every part of her wants to claim it is a coincidence, it’s a joke, that it’s just some sort of ironic way of life yet again laughing in her face, but when she sees a small joy emoji printed next to their name where the logo of each company is, she knows it is no coincidence. Someone else  _ knows _ . 

_ She’s not alone. She’s not alone. There are others. _

Somehow, the prospect frightens her and excites her at the same time. 

She asks the battalion manager about them.

“Yeet Mercenary Company?” he says, with a frown. “They are in the area, yes, but they shouldn’t have even been on your list. They’re very selective about their customers, from what I hear.”

“Selective?” says Lysithea. “How so?”

The manager nods. “I don’t know the process of exactly how they determine what jobs to take, but they’re well known for turnin’ a lotta folks down. You’re probably better off looking for another company if you want to hire mercenaries for your battalion.”

She doesn’t want to look elsewhere. She wants  _ them _ . 

“Tell me, do you know how I could get in contact with them?” she asks.

“I do, but you’re not likely gonna get very far. They aren’t interested in most people, let alone being the personal battalion for an Academy kid. And they’re pricey, too.”

Academy kid. That’s all she is to most people. She works her ass off, but nobody will see her for more than the little girl from the Golden Deer house.

“I don’t care,” she replies. She’s going to try anyways. “Tell me how to contact them.” 

“You’re in luck,” says the battalion manager. “One of their top members came into town with the latest group of merchants and a few of his guys. His name’s Chad.”

At this, Lysithea almost wants to burst out laughing. On one hand, that’s some serious dedication if he changed his name to a meme, on the other, if he was born here with it, it’d be even crazier. But then again, considering she died and ended up as someone else, there isn’t much that’s off the table at this point. 

“And where can I find Chad?” says Lysithea. 

The battalion manager shrugs. “Dunno, kid. That’s for you to find out. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s hanging around the blacksmith’s though. Guy’s a weapon nut, from what I hear.”

“Thank you,” says Lysithea. 

“Don’t go thanking me yet, kid.” he replies. “You have no idea what you’re in for.” 

“Actually,” she says. “I think I have some idea.” 

He shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t come cryin’ to me when they shoot you down like all the other kids that try.”

“I register my battalion with you once I hire them, right?” she says. 

“Yep,” says the battalion manager. 

“Great. I’ll be back to register with you later,” she says. 

“Whatever you say, kid.”

_ Memes won’t get you anywhere in life, they said.  _

_ Maybe not in that one, but in this one? We’ll see. _

* * *

She finds Chad, predictably, at the blacksmith’s shop. He’s a large guy, muscular and buff, and looks to be somewhere in his twenties. He has a large axe on his back that rests on top of his joy emoji-emblazoned shield, soft brown hair and green eyes, and a voice that is large, deep and booming. And he every bit the Chad his namesake would imply.

He’s negotiating something with the blacksmith, and she simply waits behind him until he is finished. She gets a curious glance from the blacksmith, as she is not one of their usual customers. Chad notices the blacksmith’s gaze, and briefly turns to give her a look out of the corner of his eye, before returning to his negotiations.

They come to some sort of agreement, and coins are exchanged, before Chad turns around to face her.

“Something I can help you with, kid?” he says. “You seemed to be watching me rather closely.”

“Are you Chad?” she asks. 

“I sure am,” he says. “And you are?”

“Lysithea von Ordelia,” she replies. “And I’d like to hire your mercenary company.”

Chad laughs. 

“Too bad, so would a lotta’ folks. ” he says. “We don’t take jobs from just anyone, let alone academy brats.  _ Especially _ academy brats. Do you know how many kids have tried to hire us over the years? Too many. They shouldn’t even have us on your little list. So shoo, kid. I have some business to take care of.”

Chad starts to walk off, and Lysithea internally panics, because her  _ one chance _ at meeting someone who finally understands what she is going through is slipping through her fingers. She can’t let that happen.

_ Say something, you fool!  _

“Wait! Your logo,” she says. “It’s the joy emoji, isn’t it?”

Chad stops, before looking around briefly and coming back towards her. 

“Let’s find somewhere more quiet to talk, shall we?” he says, glancing around. “My buddy owns one of the nearby pubs, Lenny’s. He always has a table for me and my guys there in the corner.”

“I don’t think I’m allowed in most pubs,” she says.

He glances her over. “Normally, you’re right, probably not. But you’re with me. It’s business. Lenny will let ya’ in. If he doesn’t, I’ll talk to him. You able to meet now? Or you got class or something?”

“I have the day off,” she says. “I can meet now.”

“Sweet,” he replies. “Follow me then, Lysithea. Or do you have another name you’d rather be called by? A lotta’ my guys do, but some don’t, so I always ask when meetin’ new folks like us.”

“Lysithea is fine,” she says. “I prefer it.”

“Cool,” he replies. “Then Lysithea it is.”

“Chad,” she says. “Is that your other name?”

He laughs. “Nope. I just thought it was funny, so I kept it. My old name was boring. Now  _ Chad _ , that’s a name with pizazz.”

“And were you always so…”

“Jacked? No. Believe it or not, I was a twig when I was younger. I just felt like I might as well earn the name, yafeel? It made it ten times funnier when I met Virgil, though.”

“Virgil?” she asks. 

“You’ll meet him later. We founded the company together. Great guy. And yes, we’re aware of the joke behind our names. That’s why we kept em’.”

“Wait,” she says. “So you’re the  _ leader _ of the Yeet Mercenary Company?” 

“Yup!” he says with a nod. “One of em’ anyways. Virgil and I founded it together. We found each other, and figured, well if there’s two of us, there’s gotta be more, and, well, here we are. ”

“So then, when I was told you were selective about your clients, does that mean… you only take jobs from people like us?” she says, quickening her pace a bit to keep up with his long strides.

“Yep. That’s exactly what we do.” he replies, pushing open the front door of Lenny’s tavern as they finally arrive. “After you.” 

“That can’t be sustainable,” she says. “There can’t possibly be that many of us out there, to keep afloat, can there?” 

“You’d be surprised, actually.” Chad waves over at the bartender, before leading her to a table in the back. “There’s more of us out there than you’d think.”

They take a seat, and Chad points to the Bartender. “That’s Lenny, he owns this place. He used to be a firefighter.” He points to a woman sitting at the bar. “Barbara over there used to work at a coffee shop to help pay for her grad school. And the guy next to her? That’s Richard. He was a journalist.”

Lenny comes over with a pint of what Lysithea assumes is beer and places it in front of Chad. “Thanks Len’,” he says. Lenny glances over at her, and Chad follows his gaze. “You want anything? Juice or something?”

“No, thank you,” she responds. “I’m not thirsty.”

Lenny leaves to head back to the bar, and Chad takes a sip of his beer with a satisfied sigh.

The chatter at the rest of the bar seems to have quieted down, and several others have gathered around to introduce themselves. 

“You found another one, eh, Chad?” says one man, who offers her his hand to shake. “The name’s Hunter. Farmer. Ironic, I know.”

“Charlie,” says a woman, “I was a pilot.”

“Jeremiah,” says a boy probably only a few years older than herself. “Software engineer.”

“I worked at a department store,” says Chad. “And you? Who were you, before?”

“I was a student,” she says. “Computer science major.”

“Here here!” says Chad, raising his glass. “To Lysithea the student! One more joins us!”

“To Lysithea the student!” they echo. “One more joins us!”

They say that there is no place like home, but Lysithea has to admit that this comes pretty close. 

“I change my mind,” she says. “I want the  _ finest _ apple cider this establishment has to offer.”

Chad grins. “Oi, Lenny! Get an apple cider for the newbie, will ya? Put it on my tab!”

The flabbergasted expression on the battalion manager’s face when she returns with a signed contract to file only makes her day even better.

“I told you I’d be back to register with you later,” she says.

* * *

When Lysithea first starts finding little boxes of candy outside her door, she is suspicious.

She’s not sure if someone is trying to poison her, or prank her, or some other manner of heinous things. She’s heard more than enough horror stories to know not to take candy from strangers.

She does not eat them. She picks them up, sets them on her desk, and slowly but surely a small pile of candy boxes starts to form.

Nonetheless, though, she is curious. 

In one box there is an assortment of taffies, in all sorts of flavors and colors. In another, there are chocolates. The boxes continue to pile up on her desk, candies and sweets of all different types, until one day she gives into her curiosity and tries one.

And another. And another.

Over the course of the night, the box is emptied piece by delicious piece, until she absentmindedly reaches in for another piece only for her hand to hit the bottom of the box. 

She reluctantly admits that the candy was good. Really good, actually.  _ Incredibly _ good. But that only further confuses her as to who the  _ hell _ keeps buying her candy.

Her first suspect is Sylvain. He hasn’t made a move on her yet, but he’s well known for being a bit overly flirtatious. Buying some candy for a girl wouldn’t be too out of line for him. Lysithea wouldn’t put it past him to do something like this, but as to why  _ her _ , she’s not sure.

Perhaps he’s successfully pissed off every other girl in the Academy. Lysithea doesn’t know the reason, but she wants to find out.

So she confronts him the next morning.

She gets several curious glances from many of the Blue Lions as she walks right into their classroom with an armful of candy boxes.

Sylvain notices the commotion and turns to see Lysithea walking straight towards him.

“Why hello, Lysithea, what can I-”

She cuts him off by dropping the candy on his desk with a loud thump.

“You can have your candy back, asshole,” she says.

“Wait, what?” he gives her a confused glance. “What candy?”

“Don’t play dumb. The candy you kept leaving outside my door,” she says. “I’m not interested in you  _ or _ your candy.”

He waves his hands in front of him.

“Lysithea, I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding here,” he says.

“How so?” she says, putting her hands on her hips and frowning. “It seems rather clear to me, buying candy for a girl. I’m not interested in your games, Sylvain. Find someone else.”

“Lysithea, I didn’t buy you candy,” he glances at the pile. “Let alone that much.”

“This is the nice stuff, too,” he says, picking up one of the boxes and inspecting it. “Probably wasn’t cheap.”

Lysithea furrows her brow. “Wait, you didn’t buy it?”

“Nope,” says Sylvain, “For once, I can honestly and truthfully say  _ it wasn’t me. _ Like, for real, it wasn’t.”

“If you didn’t send me the candy, then who did?” she says.

“How would I know?” he says. “Now would you please stop glaring at me? For once, I didn’t do anything.”

“I… apologize,” she says, and she can feel her cheeks burning. “Perhaps I was too hasty in my assumption the candy was yours. Good day, Sylvain.”

Before he can respond, she grabs the candy up in her arms, and returns to her room.

She goes through another box of candy that night.

* * *

It’s late, and for once, as Lysithea walks back from the library, she doesn’t have her hands full of books. Many of current tomes she was looking at they dont allow to leave the library, so she reluctantly had to leave without them. That does not mean, however, that her bag is not stuffed full to the brim with as many other books as she could fit in it.

She has another late night run-in with Professor Byleth that night. This time, though, their run-in is not quite as literal as the last. Professor Byleth seems unsurprised to see her out so late.

“Another late night, Lysithea?”

“Yes,” she replies. “I wasn’t tired.”

Professor Byleth gives her that unreadable expression she is so well known for. Lysithea is not able to tell exactly what she is thinking, but she is pretty sure that the professor does not buy her excuse for a second.

“It’s late,” says Professor Byleth, as she walks alongside Lysithea. “You should probably go to bed soon. You have class early tomorrow morning. You don’t want to be too tired to focus.”

As if she’s ever  _ not _ tired. 

“I could say the same to you,” retorts Lysithea. “You have to  _ teach _ class early tomorrow morning.”

“Mm. You have a fair point,” she replies. “But that doesn’t mean you should take after my bad habits.”

“It wasn’t because of you. I’ve been staying up late reading since I was a child.” She chuckles a little. “It always drove my nursemaid crazy.”

“Ah,” says Professor Byleth. 

The rest of their walk back is mostly silent. Neither of them are much for small talk.

As Lysithea unlocks her door and makes her way in, she turns to notice that Professor Byleth has not left the doorway, and is searching through the pockets of her large jacket for something.

“Yes?” says Lysithea. “Do you need something, Professor?”

_ Why the hell haven’t you left? _

Byleth pulls out a small box of candy, much like the ones that have been consistently showing up outside her door every morning.

“I almost forgot to give you this,” she says.

Lysithea is confused. “Wait, Professor, it was  _ you _ who left the candy outside my door?”

Professor Byleth hands her the candy, and Lysithea stares at the box in her hands.

“Yes,” she says. She does not explain her reasoning.

“ _ Why? _ ” says Lysithea, not at all hiding her shock. 

“I buy gifts for all of my students,” says Byleth. “Linhardt has been much more productive recently, and it is apparently due to his friendship with you.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s due to me,” she says. “I don’t really do all that much. All I do is nag him when he sits next to me at the library. I’m not even really  _ your _ student.”

“You call me professor, do you not?” says Professor Byleth. “Thus, you are my student. Linhardt told me you enjoyed candy, but he did not tell me which ones you liked. So I bought many different types.”

Lysithea almost wants to gape. It’s hard to believe the same woman who is so fierce on the battlefield they are called the “Ashen Demon” is the same woman who is now a professor at her school, the same woman who spends her free time fishing and spending obscene amounts of money on gifts for her students.

“You didn’t need to get me so many, Professor,” says Lysithea. “It’s too much.”

“I wanted to,” says Byleth. “As I said, I buy gifts for all my students when they are doing well. You are no exception. Keep up the good work.” 

“I’m not even in the Black Eagles!” protests Lysithea. 

“You could be,” says Professor Byleth. “As I said, we could always use another talented mage on our monthly outings.” 

“I…” Lysithea wants to respond, but she can’t seem to find the words. 

“You do not need to decide now,” says Professor Byleth. “But think about it. The offer's always open.”

“I will,” she replies. 

Professor Byleth turns to leave, before Lysithea stops her. 

“Professor?” she says.

She stops, turns back, and looks at Lysithea. 

“Thank you,” says Lysithea. “For the candy. And...for the future, the taffies are my favorite.”

She recieves a nod in response, before the professor makes her way out, likely to her own dorm room.

Lysithea opens the box of candy and pops one into her mouth. A chocolate cream. It’s delicious. And sweet. 

But no matter how much sweet candy she eats, she is still bitter. That doesn’t stop her, though, from going back for another piece. 


	4. Chapter 4

Lysithea has never liked Tomas. Something about him seems… off. 

He is always far too curious, far too interested, and even though he is nothing but a harmless old librarian, there is a knowing glint in his eyes that puts her on edge.

He greets her every time she walks in, and as he looks at her, she feels as if he can see into her very soul. He’s friendly. A little _too_ friendly, if you ask her.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” they’d always say. “If someone seems a little too friendly, do not trust them. They likely don’t have your best interest in mind.”

Lysithea knows she is likely just paranoid. He’s a perfectly nice man, always willing to help her locate tomes and texts she is interested in, but she always feels like he is watching her. 

He’s from Ordelia territory, and has spent some recent years there. Somehow, the prospect unsettles her more. Because for someone who is apparently a reputable member of the Church of Seiros, she has neither seen nor heard of him in her life. 

Lysithea has never been one of the devout, but Mother, Father, and Samantha are. But just because she doesn’t consider herself to be a follower of the goddess, does not mean she does not act the part of the devout noble child everyone expects her to be. 

She attended prayer sessions. She attended the weekly sermons, sang church hymns, and sat right next to her mother and father as the clergy would preach. 

They’d always say that the crests were gifts from the goddess, passed down from the heroes of old. Perhaps, for some, this is true. But her crests are not from ancient ancestors. Her crests are no gift from a goddess, but instead a curse given to her by monsters who wear the skin of men.

And somehow, in some strange way, it’d be easier for her to process the injustice of it all if her crests were a gift from a goddess. It’d still be unfair, yes, but it is far harder to place the blame on a goddess than it is other people. Gods do not care for the plights of man. But people, people should care for their fellow man, should treat others as they wish to be treated.

It’s a stupid, idealistic idea. She knows it’s something that will never happen, but some part of her still clings to the idea that people, at their core, are inherently good.

But the louder, more cynical part of her screams at her to trust nobody, that anyone she does not know well who looks at her for two seconds too long has some sort of sinister intention. 

It’s ironic, because at the same time as all of this, Lysithea wouldn’t say that she’s untrusting. Not of _everyone_ , at least. Those who earn her trust have it fully, and that is as comforting as it is dangerous.

She knows that people who she trusts would never, ever, abuse it to hurt her.

_But what if they did?_

It is a constant, intrusive thought. Professor Manuela seems nice, for now. Professor Hanneman seems nice, for now. Linhardt seems nice, for now. Professor Byleth seems nice, for now. For now, for now, for now, but how much time will it take for that to change? 

People change. People are unpredictable, not at all like the crisp clean formulas that make up spell circles, not at all like math where you know what outputs to expect from a set of inputs, the same every time.

She doesn't like it. She doesn’t like it at all. She likes control. She likes to know what will happen when, to have a plan and stick to it. 

‘Trust no one’ is a safe, but lonely philosophy to live by.

But when she is left to choose between the lesser of two evils, she’d far rather be lonely than dead. It wouldn’t be at all out of the question, as nobles and royals being assassinated is nothing new. But she has put in far too much effort to let her second chance end earlier than it already will.

_Trust no one._

_Not even yourself._

* * *

Lysithea doesn’t know what to think of Hubert. Hubert von Vestra is a skilled mage, and much like herself, is studying primarily dark magic. He is known for being extremely hard working, scores highly in class, and is, from what she can tell, somewhat of a servant or retainer of sorts for Edelgard. (If not formally, then in all but name.) He is nothing if not devoted to his liege.

But just because Lysithea does not _mind_ Hubert, does not mean that she enjoys being forced to do group work with him. It’s nothing personal, per se, and not really Hubert’s fault she dislikes it, as she simply dislikes group based work in general. Lysithea does not like to rely on others, when it’s hard to guarantee that someone else will do the work up to her standards, correctly, and on time. 

But you don’t always get what you want. 

It does make her feel slightly better that Hubert seems to feel roughly the same way about her. There is an unspoken mutual agreement between them, she feels, to “ _stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours._ ” 

And while she dislikes group work, Hubert is the ideal groupmate to have if she is forced to do it. He may not be the most friendly guy around, but his work is impeccable, cleanly done, and most importantly, on time. She makes sure hers is the same, and it is an amicable, yet distant working relationship. 

They do not talk outside of what is needed for work. They do not meet outside of what is needed for work. They simply work. She does hers, he does his.

The benefits of her research go beyond school. She often pauses to write notes in her diary, little bits and bobs about various things she finds particularly useful for the future and thoughts about her day she cannot say. 

Since the Hilda incident, she has been far more careful to ensure that what is in her diary stays private. She combines the internet slang, pop culture references, and the tiny bit of Spanish she knows, and it forms a mess that would be incomprehensible to most people in Fodlan.

She pauses her writing when she sees Hubert’s glance lift from his own book and move towards her diary.

He does not say anything, and she does not react, but the intentions behind his gaze are clear to her. He wants to know what’s in her diary. And unfortunately for him, she has no plans on letting him. She knows he was able to see some of the words on the page out of the corner of his eye, and if her assessment of Hubert being just about as paranoid as she is was correct, then he wants—no, _needs_ — to know what they mean.

“That’s a different notebook than usual,” he says.

_What is so important that you must keep it in code? Keeping secrets, are we?_

“Yes,” she replies. “It is.” 

_Yes, I am keeping secrets. And they are none of your business._

She’s evading the question. He looks at her, and she looks at him, and she feels very much like she is in a standoff in an old western movie. Neither of them are willing to budge. 

She puts her diary away, and slides her primary notebook across the table.

“My half of the calculations for the Dark Spikes spell circle are finished,” she says. “If you’ve finished yours, we can start working on the composition.”

For today, they remain at a stalemate. They have far more important things to worry about. 

“I finished mine earlier,” he says nonchalantly. “I was simply waiting for you to finish yours.”

_Of course he was. Bastard._

* * *

Professor Byleth asks Lysithea to accompany the Black Eagles on their monthly mission, and at first, Lysithea can’t seem to find the right words to respond. 

_Why do you want me? Why won’t you people leave me alone? Why invest your time in someone who can’t give you theirs back?_

There is a flurry of resentment and self-doubt that Lysithea cannot chase away, until Professor Byleth mentions the hefty chunk of extra credit she’d get if she decided to come along. 

She doesn’t know why her GPA is so important to her. She's not going to last long enough for it to matter. But even knowing that, the idea of getting anything less than an A makes her want to cringe. Her own standards for herself are far higher than the standards anyone else could ever put on her, and even though she’s well aware of this, that does not make it any less disappointing when she doesn’t meet them.

She forgot to finish an assignment last week and was mortified. Truth be told, she knows that it wasn’t her fault she passed out at her desk, and that her GPA would be more than fine with one missed assignment, but it doesn’t stop her from perking up at the very mention of extra credit.

Lysithea fumbles with her words, until she finally manages to stammer out a “yes.” 

Professor Byleth gives her a time and a place to meet up with a smile. 

She feels like a different person in the heat of battle When she fights, she is no longer the sickly girl who struggles to get out of bed. She is no longer the bookworm who sits in the back of the class. She is no longer someone people can overlook. 

When she fights, she is a spell-slinging demon, powerful, _unstoppable_. Her blood burns, and the storm in her veins shoots its way through her and out of her fingertips like the wild, untamed force of nature it is. 

One after another, spell after spell, bursts of dark energy fly from her fingertips. 

While she can use other forms of magic if she wanted to, nothing quite calls to her the way dark magic does. It’s one of the only forms of magic that both of her crests seem to agree with. 

She can do wind magic, but then Charon rages. She can do thunder, but then Gloucester gets riled up. She can do fire, but then both of them rage, and she coughs and coughs. Dark magic is one of the few they do not interfere in.

It is one of the only times she feels truly free, when she casts a spell.

Spell after spell, bandit after bandit, she tears through her opponents like a knife through butter. Lysithea has never thought herself to be a violent person. But she does have to admit it’s disgustingly satisfying to let out her frustrations, her worries, her woes, in battle. 

But battle is just as disgusting as it is exhilarating. 

Her hands are covered in blood. Both her own, and the blood of the poor souls who simply happened to be unfortunate enough to be her opponent. She’s disgusted with herself. 

She sees enemy mages, imagines they are the masked men who caused her to be covered head to toe in scars, and lets out her fury. 

Swarm.

_It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault I’ll never have enough time to do anything, that I’m going to die again, slowly, agonizing, the same way I did last time._

Miasma.

_Except this time, it’s something that could have been avoided. This time, there is someone to blame._

Dark Spikes.

_It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault._

A few strands of hair falls out of her ponytail, and she tries to blow them out of her face, to no avail. They are stuck to her sweaty forehead, and she can hardly breathe, and she is so tired.

Linhardt finally catches up to her. 

“We were supposed to stick together, you know,” he says. “I can’t heal you if you keep running off ahead of me.”

“No we weren’t,” she replies, putting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “You were supposed to be with Caspar. I was supposed to be with Hubert.”

“And we all knew that wasn’t going to happen as soon as the Professor said it,” replies Linhardt. “And Caspar is nearby, but he, unlike you, has other people to force him to stop when he doesn’t know his own limits.”

She frowns. “I do know my limits.”

Her lungs calm as she feels Linhardt place a glowing hand on her back. She glances up to see him raising an eyebrow, disbelieving.

“I do know my limits,” she says. “I just choose to ignore them.”

“That’s not any better,” says Linhardt. “If anything, I’d argue that’s worse.”

She knows he’s right, but she won’t ever admit it in front of him. 

“I’m sure this wasn’t what the Professor had in mind when she invited you along, Lysithea,” he says. “As nice as it is to have another mage on the field, I’d rather you not kill yourself through overexertion.”

“I’m not,” she replies, taking her hair out of the ponytail to fix the strands that had fallen out of place. “I’m fine. I can keep going.”

Linhardt simply gives her a look.

She sighs.

“Perhaps I could slow down a little and let Caspar take a few of them,” she says.

As if on queue, Caspar bursts into the clearing she and Linhardt are in, and looks around with a frown at all the bandits scattered on the ground.

“Aww, you didn’t leave any for me,” he groans. “Lysithea, c’mon, you can’t keep stealing all the action.”

He pumps his fist.

“You should have seen me get this one dude earlier, I was like _bam,_ y’know, like _pow!_ Then he was like-“

“Caspar, can you shut _up_?” says Lysithea.

She’s too tired to listen to his rambling right now.

Caspar shakes his head.

“Nah, he was like _augh, ow, oof!_ Although it would have been _totally_ funny if he told me to shut up, but I don’t think that could have even happened, because he’d have no way of knowing I’m Caspar.”

* * *

“Do you two mind explaining to me why you thought it was a good idea to split up the way you did?”

Professor Byleth sighs.

“You’re lucky that we were only fighting low level bandits. Had it been anything more serious, the consequences could have been far more dire than just a scolding from me. In the real world, if you disobey orders like that, you can not only get yourself killed, but other people as well.”

She sends a disappointed look towards Hubert and Lysithea.

“I might have expected this from the others. Caspar doing this type of thing wouldn’t have surprised me. But of all people, I did not expect you two to go so far off plan.”

Hubert frowns. 

“You put me on the opposite side of the battlefield from Lady Edelgard,” he says. “That is unacceptable.”

“And so is ditching your partner,” says Byleth. “Do you know what could have happened had Lysithea not found Linhardt and Caspar, Hubert?”

At this, Lysithea butts in.

“I can handle myself,” says Lysithea. “It was only some bandits. I was fine, and so was Hubert. We can handle ourselves.”

_We’re not babies._

“I was only with Linhardt because he wouldn't leave me alone,” says Lysithea.

“And I knew that Lysithea could handle herself,” says Hubert. 

“And so can Edelgard, Hubert. And even if Edelgard _were_ to get into trouble, I was right there to watch her back. There’s a _reason_ we were divided into pairs. So that we can watch each other’s backs. No matter how strong the individual is, it cannot top the power of a team.”

She points at Hubert. “ _You_ won’t always be able to be with Edelgard at every second of the day.” She moves to point at Lysithea. “And _you_ won’t always be able to handle everything yourself. Both of you need to learn to rely more on other people.”

Hubert and Lysithea glance at each other, and it is painfully clear that both of them are far from pleased at that idea.

Professor Byleth drags a hand across her face. 

“You two just don’t get why this is so severe, do you?” she says. “The chain is only as strong as the weakest link. Together, we are strong. Alone, we are weak.”

Before either Hubert or Lysithea can protest, Professor Byleth continues.

“I want an essay from each of you about the possible consequences of your reckless actions by next week. As well as one on the importance of teamwork in battle. Five pages minimum for each.”

“But-” starts Lysithea.

“No buts. And both of you are on stable duty for a month. Or the rookery. Whichever happens to need more help.”

* * *

Mucking stalls is not an unfamiliar experience for Lysithea. She used to do it all the time, before. She used to love going to horseback riding lessons until she got sick enough to where she had to stop riding.

It’s calming, spending time around the horses. It’s a routine she’s used to, having spent many years around them. (She’s not ashamed to admit to the fact that she was—and in many ways still is—a horse girl.) Although it’s not quite the same as it used to be before. Because here, alongside the horses, are _pegasi._

They are creatures straight out of her wildest fantasies as a child, right in front of her very eyes, and yet still so far out of her reach. 

They do not like her. She reaches a hand out to pet one of them, once, and it rears back with a loud whinny, baring its teeth at her. She tries again with a different pegasus, and it, too, rejects her.

She pulls her hand back.

_Her horrible, filthy, impure, bloodstained hand._

“Pegasi only listen to maidens who are pure of heart,” she is told by a stablehand. “Don’t take it personally. They don’t like a lotta folks.”

She has to admit it hurts. Because as much as they say it isn’t personal, it _is._ She is not good enough, not pure enough of heart, and it only further reaffirms the fact that she is not meant to be. She is an anomaly, a freak, an imposter, so much so that even _animals_ know it. 

Accepting this fact is a far harder task than mucking stalls. Mucking stalls is dirty, tedious, and time-consuming, but not difficult. It’s the same easy routine of picking up dirty straw and dumping it into a wheelbarrow. Out with the old, in with the new, it’s a routine she’s very used to by now.

Hubert, on the other hand, seems to be having quite a bit more difficulty with it than Lysithea. It makes sense. He likely hasn’t spent much time mucking stalls before now. And judging by his expression whenever some of the “pegasus blessings” fall on his boots, he clearly isn’t that fond of it.

The pegasi don’t like him, either. But he is no maiden, and Lysithea knows that even if he was, he is most certainly not one who could be called pure of heart. 

As much as she does not consider herself to like Hubert, she understands him, in a way. They are very alike in many ways. They are both hard working, do not enjoy wasting time, and neither of them enjoy working in groups.

It’s funny, that even after writing an essay for Professor Byleth on all the benefits of teamwork, for her, the pros still do not outweigh the cons. You can get more work done with more hands on deck, but it takes her more time to correct someone else’s incompetence than it would to just do it herself. 

She is greedy, and selfish, and not at all pure of heart. She knows this. 

That doesn’t make it hurt any less when Hilda and Claude show up for flying practice and the pegasi listen to Hilda and not her.

* * *

When the mages Chad had sent for her battalion finally arrive, Lysithea is ecstatic. The leader of the group she is assigned is a woman by the name of Delilah, according to the letters.

Lysithea waits by the entrance of the monastery, watching those who enter until she sees a group of mages enter. The woman at the front says something to the others, and then they split up. The woman heads towards where Lysithea is, and the others in the group head off in the direction of Lenny’s.

The woman is… to put it bluntly, she is a beautiful, buff as hell, blonde woman. She’s someone who wouldn’t have looked out of place on an ad for a gym membership. 

As she gets closer, she and Lysithea catch each other’s eyes. The woman grins and makes her way up towards Lysithea.

“You Lysithea, sweetpea?” she says, as she approaches. 

The woman has a thick southern drawl that must have carried over from before. Normally, she’d be offended at someone talking to her like a child, but there’s just something about being called “sweetpea” by a woman with a southern accent that makes Lysithea let it slide.

“Depends,” says Lysithea. “You Delilah?”

“Hey there,” she says, waving her hand. “Yup. Delilah, that’s me. The one and only.”

“Then yes, I’m Lysithea,” she replies, offering her hand. “A pleasure.”

“Me and my guys are gonna be your new battalion,” says Delilah, taking the offered hand and shaking it with a grin. “You wanted top-tier mages, right?”

“That’s right,” confirms Lysithea. “I was hoping one of you would have some experience with dark magic? While the teachers here are wonderful, I was hoping one of you would be able to give me some pointers.”

Delilah grins. “You’re in luck. Dark magic is my specialty. What are you up to, Swarm? Miasma?”

“No, I mastered those already.” says Lysithea. “Dark Spikes.”

Delilah pauses for a moment. “I’m sorry, did you just say you’re already on _Dark Spikes?_ Dear lord, sweetheart, how long have you been doing magic?”

“A while,” says Lysithea with a shrug. “I’ve always been good at math, so it wasn’t too difficult to start picking up magic. It helped I had a good foundation to build off of.”

“Oh, man,” Delilah shakes her head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” Lysithea frowns.

Delilah laughs. “I’ve seen people study dark magic for years and never even get _close_ to touching Dark Spikes. It’s not just calculations, you’ve gotta have a real knack and feel for magic in order to pull it off. Have you mastered the casting, or just the theory?”

“Both,” says Lysithea. 

Delilah lets out a low whistle. 

“Okay, yeah. I see why Chad asked me to be the one in charge of your job, now. I think we’re going to get along _real_ well, miss Lysithea.”

She grins, placing a hand on Lysithea’s shoulder.

Although Delilah’s smile is wide and friendly, Lysithea feels like she’s walked straight into the lion's den. 

* * *

Delilah is a strict taskmaster. Unlike many of her teachers, Delilah does not have any other students to manage, and so when she helps Lysithea, she makes sure she does the task damn-near perfectly. 

Lysithea has been casting spells for what feels like hours.

“Again.”

Lysithea turns to face Delilah, red-faced and out of breath.

“What do you mean _again?_ ” she huffs. “I got it. I told you I could cast Dark Spikes, and I did.”

Lysithea gestures back towards the training dummy.

“Just because you can get it to cast doesn’t mean you’ve _got it._ Your flow rate is so inconsistent that some of your spikes are more like needles, and you’re not channeling enough energy to make the hit radius spread far as it should.” says Delilah. “All in all, you have one of the sloppiest Dark Spikes spells I’ve ever seen.”

Lysithea glares at her. “And how many have you seen?”

“Enough to know that your Dark Spikes is a flaming pile of pegasus shit,” she says.

“It is _not,_ ” protests Lysithea.

“It is,” repeats Delilah. “Do it again.”

Lysithea casts it again, this time spending a bit more time focusing on keeping her flow rate even. The spikes still aren’t as large or uniform as she’d like them to be.

Lysithea glances back and nearly groans as she sees Delilah’s frown remains unchanged.

“You got too impatient again,” says Delilah. “You focused on your flow rate, but started trying to mold the energy before you had finished gathering enough. Focus on your energy flow rate, and be sure to channel enough of it before you start trying to mold it. Try it again.”

Lysithea tries again, and this time, although she has enough power behind the spell to make it go a sufficient radius, some of the spikes are far bigger than others.

“You got so focused on energy channeling you forgot to keep a consistent flow rate,” says Delilah. “Again.”

Lysithea starts to gather the energy she needs, before Delilah cuts her off.

“Stop.”

Lysithea pauses, letting the energy that was gathering in her fingertips slowly fade away. 

“Stop?” she echoes. “Stop what?”

“Stop thinking so much,” says Delilah, as if that explains everything.

“What do you mean _‘stop thinking’_ , are you crazy?”

“According to some people, yes,” replies Delilah. “But despite what all your textbooks say, magic is more than just calculations and theory work. Step aside.”

Delilah gently nudges Lysithea out of her spot and takes her place in front of the dummy.

“Watch my hands,” she says. In a flurry of dark energy, Delilah casts Dark Spikes with accuracy and power that would make any mage jealous. 

“All that theory work you’ve done has its purpose,” says Delilah, “but once you get to the really high up stuff, you need to just stop _thinking_ and start _doing_.”

“What do you mean?” says Lysithea.

“Ugh. Bookworms.” Delilah groans and rubs a hand across her face. “Give me your hands.”

“What?” says Lysithea.

“Give. Me. Your. Hands,” says Delilah. “C’mon, I don’t have all day, sweetheart.”

Lysithea reluctantly holds her hands out in front of her.

_What the hell is this woman on?_

“Did your teachers ever teach you to _feel_ magic?” says Delilah.

“No,” says Lysithea.

“Of course they didn’t,” grumbles Delilah. A small burst of dark energy gathers in her hands, and she places it into Lysithea’s. “Hold it,” she commands.

Lysithea does. It’s a strange feeling, to simply maintain the small ball of energy, to feel Delilah’s magic mix with her own, as a purple flame hovers in her hands. It hums in her hands, and Charon and Gloucester get a bit excited. The energy in her hands is wild, is raw, ready to rush out of her hands were she to lose focus for even a fraction of a second. Lysithea doesn’t know how much longer she is going to be able to hold it. 

“You feel that?” asks Delilah. “How it wants to fly, to run?”

“Yes,” says Lysithea. 

“Good. Make sure it doesn’t, and split the energy between your two hands and maintain it,” says Delilah.

Lysithea tries, gently easing it into two separate balls of energy, but she loses control and it fizzles out in her hands.

“What happened?” she says, confused. “I was doing everything by the book. It should have worked.”

“And that right there is your problem, sweetheart,” says Delilah. “Magic is different for everyone. The math is the same, but the energy—the energy is different for all of us. You felt how mine was different than yours, yeah?”

Lysithea nods.

“Once you get to a certain point, you have to start focusing less on the calculations and more on yourself and your magical signature. It’s not something that’s standard,” says Delilah. 

Delilah waves at the training dummy, which is covered in holes and sizzling at the edges. “But if you want your spells to end up like that, you’ve gotta bend the rules a little.”

Delilah glances at the clock on the wall and frowns. “You said you got permission from your professor to work with me for a few hours, right?”

Lysithea nods. “Yes, that’s correct.”

Delilah grins. “Great. Because you and I are going to spend the rest of our time for today doing the energy splitting exercise until you can do it with your eyes closed.”

Lysithea almost wants to gape. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” responds Delilah, unphased. “Chop, chop. Get to it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Lysithea has never understood the appeal to asking someone to tea. She understands that people find it fun, but she does not for the life of her understand _why._ She has never been one for chatter, or small talk, so the idea of doing it “for fun” has never appealed to her.

The only good thing that could possibly come out of the experience would be the little cookies they serve with the tea. But one can easily get those straight from the dining hall and skip the middleman of social niceties. 

The tea itself isn’t something she loves, either. All of them are far too bitter, even the sweet ones. Lysithea can’t even stomach a sip of even the sweetest teas the monastery has without an obscene amount of added sugar. (She’s sure her tea habits would disgust the local monastery tea fanatics, but she doesn’t care. Lorenz and Ferdinand can both go take the sticks out of their asses and use them to stir their disgustingly bitter tea.)

She had several people ask her to tea when the school year first began. One by one, she turned them all down. 

But it seems that even despite her best efforts to make her opinions on tea perfectly clear, some people simply didn’t get the memo. 

Today’s idiot of the day is Thurston, a minor Alliance Noble’s son who seemingly doesn’t know or doesn’t care that Lysithea isn’t the least bit interested in him.

“Would you care to join me for tea this afternoon?” he asks.

“No,” she replies. “I don’t have time.”

Thurston frowns. “It doesn’t take that long. We have an hour free period today, tea wouldn’t take more than fifteen or twenty minutes, at most.”

_And that’s fifteen or twenty minutes too many._

She starts to gather her things so that she can go back to her dorm room. The library is no longer safe for today. 

“As I said,” repeats Lysithea, “I don’t have time. No thank you.”

Thurston gives her a smile that shows far too many teeth and puts his hand on the table in front of Lysithea, blocking her from leaving. 

“Surely you could make time for-” he starts to protest, before he is cut off by an obnoxious voice that, for once, she is happy to hear. 

“The lady said _no_ , Thurston,” says Lorenz. “Honestly, for a man of good breeding, your manners are horribly brutish. What would your father think if he found out about his son acting so _uncouth_ towards a lady?”

Lorenz, even with being a bit of a womanizer, at the very minimum, attempts to be respectful. And he takes things like dishonorable behavior very seriously. As the heir to the “ _great and noble House Gloucester,”_ Lorenz does have a bit of political sway, and he is not afraid to use it.

And Thurston knows this. He pales.

“Ah, no,” he says, with a nervous chuckle. “You misunderstand, Lorenz, I was simply leaving.”

“Then leave,” replies Lorenz. “You should hurry. You have a lecture to attend, do you not? I thought I heard Professor Manuela say that you were supposed to report for remedial lessons today.”

He turns towards where Thurston fumbles for his things and raises an eyebrow. “Unless I was mistaken?”

Thurston doesn’t respond with words, but the speed at which he leaves the library answers for him.

Lorenz then turns to her.

“I apologize,” he says.

Lysithea pauses. 

“You… _apologize?_ ” she repeats, almost not believing her ears. Could he, perhaps, have understood his wrongs and gained some humility? 

“Yes.” Lorenz nods. “Thurston’s behavior was completely unfitting of a young man of his status. You should not have to deal with hooligans such as himself.”

_Ah. So he’s not apologizing for his own behavior then._

Lorenz is not a bad person, but the misguided way he clings to what he has been taught, that nobility are better than commoners, is something that makes it hard for Lysithea to look at his good aspects. 

She is disappointed, but not unsurprised. For Lorenz to see the error of his ways and change in such a short time period would be nothing short of a miracle. But then again, many would consider getting a second chance at life a miracle, so miracles aren’t fully off the table.

But her faith in miracles goes further down the drain when Lorenz continues.

“Surely you understand the importance of behaving according to one’s stature, being of not only a noble family, but also considering you are also, like me, of the Gloucester line-”

_Right. He still thinks I’m a bastard child of his family._

“Just because we have the same crest does not mean we are family. I’d appreciate it if you stopped implying I’m a bastard child. My mother and father have never _once_ thought about cheating, and I can assure you, I was very much wanted _and_ planned.”

_Especially after the others died._

She looks him right in the eyes. 

“One’s behavior should not be determined by the family they were born in, Lorenz. People should act appropriately regardless of status,” says Lysithea, as she finishes putting her books in her bag. “Noble or commoner, it doesn’t matter. We all live and die the same.”

She takes a deep breath.

“Have you ever wondered why so many girls complain about you, Lorenz?” she says. “It’s because people don’t appreciate others looking down on them for things they cannot control. One cannot control the circumstances of their birth. Looking down on people for being born commoners instead of nobles is foolish when many nobles do nothing with their lives but sit on top of wealth they did not earn and do not deserve.”

“Lysithea-”

She cuts him off.

“Just… think about it, Lorenz. You can’t woo a lady by saying she looks good “despite being lowborn.” Real compliments do not come with a “but” or a “despite”. I’m in no mood to argue this further. Like I said, I don’t have time for chatter today. I have things to do.”

With that, she gets up, swings the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and leaves. She doesn’t look back.

* * *

Lysithea isn’t sure what to call her relationship with Linhardt. She’s reluctant to call it friendship, but the more she thinks about it, the more it meets the criteria.

The candies he slides across the library table they share when she forgets to eat, the books she delivers to him from the library, the glowing hands on her back when she coughs a little too much—they are all little things that have slowly but surely wormed their way into her normal routine.

And with Linhardt comes Caspar, a blue shadow with a smile as bright as the sun and an attitude to match. He brings them both plates of food that are piled with portions far too large, and then when they finish what they can eat, (which for Lysithea, is often quite little) Caspar finishes the rest.

“Food is food,” he says. “And it’s too damn good to let you guys waste it.”

He frowns at her mostly still full plate. 

“You didn’t eat much,” he says. “You sure you’re done? Even _Linhardt_ ate more than you did.”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Go ahead.”

Caspar shrugs, before digging into the food at a pace that is far too quick to be healthy.

Linhardt sighs. “Caspar, slow down or you’ll choke.”

Caspar finishes his mouthful before pointing his fork at Linhardt. “Eat more or you’ll starve,” he counters.

“I will not,” says Linhardt.

“And I won’t choke,” says Caspar.

“You will,” says Lysithea. “The probability of you choking increases every time you eat like that. The chance is low, but the more times you do it, the more chances you have for it to happen.”

Caspar takes another mouthful of food. “You can’t talk either, you literally only ate the cookies and left all the protein. Like dude, you get mad when people call you a child but you’ll never grow big and strong like me if you don’t eat your vegetables.”

He’s right, but she won’t admit it.

Lysithea huffs. “Big and strong like you, huh? Don’t you just mean strong? I don’t see the big part.”

“Hey, unfair,” protests Caspar. “That’s a low blow, and you’re shorter than I am.”

“And I’m also younger,” says Lysithea. 

_And sick._

“I’ve got time to grow, but you’re running out. Tick tock Caspar, better keep eating your protein and drinking your milk.”

“Are you calling me old?” he says.

“I believe so, yes,” replies Linhardt.

“Linhardt, that means you’re old too,” says Caspar. “You’re not just gonna take that lying down, are you?”

“Mmm…” Linhardt hums. “I might.”

“You just asked the guy who sleeps all day if he was going to take things lying down. Truly, a genius move by Caspar von Bergliez,” says Lysithea.

“You two are such bullies,” grumbles Caspar. “You should be grateful I’m nice and bring you food so you don’t starve.”

Lysithea scoffs. “Please. We all know the real reason you do it is so you can have whatever we don’t eat as seconds.”

“That’s just a bonus,” says Caspar. “You can’t blame me for making sure you guys don’t waste food. If I don’t eat it, who else will?”

“I’m sure they’d find someone,” says Linhardt. “And the pigs are always hungry.”

“Are you calling me a pig, Linhardt?” says Caspar, as he stuffs what is probably his third roll into his mouth.

“No, but if you’re calling yourself one,” he shrugs. “I won’t say you’re wrong.”

“Excuse you, I’m a growing boy,” protests Caspar. “I need fuel.”

“For what?” she says. “Getting your ass handed to you by dudes five times taller than you? You’re a manlet, Caspar. Accept it.” 

“I did not get my ass handed to me,” says Caspar. “I won.”

“After getting beat up several times,” says Lysithea.

“I still won,” says Caspar. “So you can suck it. I’m not a manlet, whatever that is. I’m a winner.”

“I believe she is calling you short, Caspar,” drawls Linhardt. “At least, that was what I could gather from context.”

“I’m not even short,” he protests. “I’m perfectly normal sized. Everyone taller than me is simply a giant, that’s all.”

“Is it?” replies Linhardt.

“Shut up, giant.”

“Okay, manlet.”

She laughs as Caspar chokes on his food.

“I told you it would happen eventually,” she says.

* * *

Lysithea suspects something is rotten in Garreg Mach Monastery the moment Professor Byleth returns from protecting the Holy Tomb with a weapon supposedly wielded by a great hero of old.

The Sword of the Creator is a ghastly weapon, spine-like in appearance, able to extend itself like a whip under the guidance of the proper wielder. 

The fact that the Professor has the crest needed to wield this legendary weapon is even more astonishing. The Crest of Fames hasn’t been seen for centuries, since Nemesis himself. That is, until the professor.

The Black Eagles seem to have an uncanny knack for getting into sticky situations. First, they ended up on the Lonato mission. Lysithea remembers Linhardt being especially quiet for a while after that. Caspar was too. It’s one thing to fight against trained soldiers, and another entirely to fight against farmers with makeshift weapons and hand-me-down armor. She can imagine it’d be hard.

Then, after that whole fiasco, they discovered a plot to assassinate the Archbishop, which turned out to be a ploy to get into the Holy Tomb.

Why someone would want to get into the Holy Tomb, Lysithea isn’t sure. But if someone were aware that in that tomb were such relics like the Sword of the Creator… then it would certainly provide a suitable incentive for someone to want to break in. Lysithea can’t even fathom the amount of gold something like that would go for on the black market, but she can imagine it’d definitely fetch quite a pretty penny. 

But there are far easier ways to make money, and if one is to go thieving, there are far easier targets. So,if not for money, why else would someone be searching for something like the Sword of the Creator?

It’s not like someone could use it without the proper crest. And the likelihood of more people having the Crest of Flames is astronomically low. 

But although unlikely, it is possible. There’s very little that Lysithea is willing to say is impossible, these days. But is it likely? No. And even if there were someone else out there with the Crest of Flames, why would they need the Sword of the Creator? For what purpose would they use it for?

Lysithea has never understood the appeal of the Heroes’ Relics. They have always unsettled Lysithea from the first moment she has ever seen one. They are gruesome looking, and there is something about their appearance that sets her on edge. They look like horrid patchworks of bones, moving and twitching in their wielder’s hands as if they were alive.

(For all Lysithea knows, they could be.)

They make her heart race, her blood sing, and Gloucester and Charon cry out for something she does not understand, making her feel as if she is vibrating. Electricity and wind, together as one, a storm of energy. 

Is it in sorrow, that they rage? Anger? Anguish? Excitement? She is not sure. They call, they yell, they scream in her very blood, but for what, she does not know. But she knows that everything of great power comes with a price. Just because she does not yet know what that price is, does not mean there isn’t one.

She walks by Catherine and her Thunderbrand, and can feel static shocks run through her spine. Charon is excited, but Gloucester is cold as ice, giving her frostbite from the inside out. Lysithea swears that she catches Catherine’s gaze turn towards her, briefly, as she walks by her. But Catherine keeps on walking, and so does Lysithea.

She walks by Lorenz and Thyrsus, and can feel the wind at her back, a pleased feeling from Gloucester, and a hiss from Charon in turn as a storm brews. Lorenz gives her a glance, but whether it is due to simply his normal tomfoolery or something else, she does not know.

She walks by Professor Byleth and the Sword of the Creator, and feels the calm she used to get when her old father would tuck her into bed at night as a child.

_Love. Safe._

For once, both Charon and Gloucester are in agreement, not tearing at each other and not tearing at her in the process. For once, there is harmony. 

It is comforting, warm, soft. It’s a strange feeling, but not an unwelcome one. Because for the first time in a long time, she remembers what it is like to not be caught between the two forces of nature fighting in her blood.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long. The waves once again begin to pull, coming and going almost as soon as Professor Byleth is out of sight. Gloucester and Charon yet again return to their eternal war— _no, not eternal, their war will end when she does_ —and Lysithea is yet again stuck in the middle. 

She is trapped in no-man's land, an anomaly in a place she doesn’t belong.

She is Lucy- _no, that’s not my name, not anymore_ — is Lysithea. 

She is Lysithea.

Lysithea, Lysithea, Lysithea.

_But for how long?_

* * *

The monastery’s cats have long been one of Lysithea’s favorite features of Garreg Mach. She likes dogs, too, but there’s just something about cats that have always called to her.

She used to have her own cats, before. They were brothers, and one of them was shy. The cats at the monastery, on the other hand, tend to be far from it.

They will meow and beg for scraps for any who will listen, and for those who know their way around cats, they are always open for a chin scratch or two.

Recently, she’s become close friends with a grey cat she’s nicknamed “Tom”. It’s a stupid, childish name, based off of the old cartoons she used to watch as a child, but in a way, it fits.

Tom certainly doesn’t seem to mind the name, so long as she continues to scratch him under his chin and give him a few more behind his ears in that spot that is _just right_.

The cats here are far more independent than hers were. They are not confined to the space of a house, and instead roam and prowl the towering heights with ease as if they own the monastery. (For all they know, they do.)

As she gives Tom a scrap of fish from today’s lunch, she gives him a scratch behind his ears.

He purrs, and for the first time in a long time, Lysithea feels as if she is back at home. As if she were at home, cuddled up under the blankets with her cats on either side, purring and—

She hears a meow as Tom nudges his head further into her hand, licking at her fingers, looking for more.

“Heya, Lysithea!”

She turns as she sees Caspar approaching.

He crouches down next to her and offers a hand for Tom to sniff. For once, Caspar is quiet.

“I didn’t know you liked cats,” says Lysithea.

Caspar nods. “I love em! They’re really cute, aren’t they?”

Caspar pulls out a small strip of dried meat from his back pocket and gives it to Tom, who purrs as Caspar rubs his back while he chews.

“Tom likes you,” says Lysithea. 

“Tom?” says Caspar, confused.

“That’s his name,” says Lysithea. She fiddles with her fingers. “Or at least, it’s the one I gave him, anyways.”

“Tom…” Caspar takes a moment to think. Tom finishes his jerky bite and eagerly sniffs Caspar’s hands looking for more. “It fits him! I like it. I’ve just been calling him ‘buddy’ or ‘kitty’, but everyone deserves a name!”

He reaches back into his pocket for another bite of jerky.

“I can’t believe I forgot to name him,” groans Caspar.

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you if you keep feeding him more of that jerky,” says Lysithea, as Tom moves from sniffing Caspar’s hands to looking at Lysithea for more.

“He better,” says Caspar. “This is the good stuff.”

Tom quickly heads back over towards Caspar when he pulls out another piece.

“Have any extra?” asks Lysithea.

“Sure,” says Caspar. “Here, hold out your hand and I’ll give you some.”

She holds out a hand, and Caspar drops a fistful of jerky into it.

“Thanks.”

Caspar grins. “No problem.”

“Where did you even get this much?” she asks, glancing towards him. 

“I bought it with my own money,” he says. He scratches behind Tom’s ears. “I know that these guys can fend for themselves, but, it makes me happy to feed them, and it makes them happy too, so why not, y’know?”

Lysithea looks at the sizeable pile of jerky in her hands. “I’ll pay you back for this,” she says. “You shouldn’t give away something you spent your hard-earned money on.”

She offers it back to him, but he waves her away. “Nah, it’s a gift!” He pauses for a moment to think. “But if ya’ really wanted to pay me back, I could really use some help on my tactics essay. I don’t even know where to start with it.”

Lysithea smiles.

“I could definitely help with that,” she says. “We can make you an outline to go off of.”

“Really?” Caspar lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the goddess, because otherwise I’d be so screwed.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” she clarifies. “Just helping.”

“That’s fine,” says Caspar. “I appreciate it. I’m no good at writing and stuff.”

When they run out of jerky, Tom loses interest and wanders off somewhere else.

Lysithea goes to class covered in cat hair, and her fingers smell of beef and fish. She gets a few strange glances from the others, but she doesn’t care.


	6. Chapter 6

Her sentiment that something is rotten in Garreg Mach Monastery is only further proven right when students start to go missing. Or so the rumours say.

Lysithea has never been one to pay much attention to rumours, but she has to admit she is intrigued. The supposed kidnapper strikes at night, and as a bit of a night owl herself, some little part of her screams to constantly look behind her as she walks to and from the library.

But as she looks over her shoulder, she sees nothing. She sees nothing, she hears nothing, her only companion the whispers carried by the wind.

The Knights of Seiros’ patrols are now far more often, far more numerous, and far more thorough. But things are not truly “all hands on deck” until Flayn, Seteth’s sister, goes missing. 

The monastery goes on full alert, and Professor Byleth is on the case, scouring every nook and cranny for clues. (And with her, the rest of her class.)

She is studying at a sunlit bench in one of the many courtyards when Caspar runs up to her, out of breath.

“LysitheahaveyouseenFlaynanywhereshesmissingandI’mkindaworriedthat-”

“Caspar,” she says, holding up a hand and cutting him off. “Slow down. I can’t understand what you’re saying when you talk that fast.”

Caspar takes a moment to catch his breath. 

“Have you seen Flayn anywhere?” he says, more slowly this time. “Professor Byleth sent us—well not _us_ , but the Black Eagles—all out to look for any clues because she’s missing and-”

“I haven’t seen her,” says Lysithea, cutting him off. She’s not lying. She truly _hasn’t_ seen Flayn. She barely knows the girl, only giving her a polite nod and a smile or two as they occasionally pass by each other on their way to different places.

She answers a few more of Caspar’s questions, before he runs off to ask other people.

Lysithea is concerned for the other girl’s welfare, but she is also busy. She doesn’t have time to worry about people she doesn’t know—that she doesn’t _really_ know. (Knowing _of_ someone and _knowing_ someone are two different things entirely.)

“Aw, man, you haven’t seen her?” says Caspar. 

Lysithea nods. “No, I haven’t seen her.”

He takes off again to keep looking with a “Thanks, Lysithea!” called over his shoulder. 

She doesn’t know where he gets his energy from, but she hopes that his efforts are successful.

She doesn’t know Flayn all that well, but she does not wish her harm. Professor Byleth is nothing if not thorough, so they’ll find her. Hopefully sooner rather than later. 

She keeps up with her normal routine, aside from Professor Byleth’s lecture being cancelled for the day. She’s tired, and as she makes her usual trip to the library, she can’t help but stare at the stars again.

Some part of her constantly racing mind calms, and her racing thoughts are shoved aside and replaced by visions of the starry sky above.

It is quiet, and she is alone but for the night air and the _click-clack_ of her boots on the stone.

The kidnappings are at the very back of her mind until the moment she feels a cloth cover her mouth and nose and an arm wrap around her waist. She drops her books as her arms end up pinned to her sides.

_Don’t breathe in don’t breathe in don’t breathe in-_

Despite her best effort not to, she takes a deep breath. It is pungent and sweet-smelling, but in a way that makes her want to gag instead of something like the sweet smell of a freshly unwrapped candy.

She tries to raise her hand, to fire off a burst of dark energy, but there is an arm wrapped around her waist, pinning both of her arms, and she can feel the dark energy racing out of her fingertips, uncontrolled and sizzling as it hits the ground.

_Let me go, let me go, let me go!_

Another breath, in and out, more sweet air.

_Let go of me!_

In, out.

Another breath, and— _no don’t close your eyes don’t you need to stay awake_ —

Her eyes drift shut, and the sweet abyss of darkness takes her into its hold. 

It’s ironic, really, how easy it is to not care about something, until it happens to you.

* * *

She wakes to achy muscles and joints. This alone wouldn’t be unusual, as her whole body aches most every day, but not normally _this_ bad.

There is something wrapped around her inner arms, likely bandages, if she were to guess.

She tries to open her eyes, but it is bright, too bright, and she quickly shuts them again with a small groan. She clenches her fingers around soft sheets, and can hear someone excitedly yammering on about something she isn’t coherent enough to make out.

Her head is spinning, and she takes a moment to let things settle before she tries again.

“Hey Linhardt, I think she’s awake! Good morning, Lysithea!”

She opens her eyes again, slowly, only to find Caspar’s face uncomfortably close to her own. It’s still uncomfortably bright, so she squints as her eyes adjust.

“If I wasn’t awake, already, I would be now. Do you have a volume level that isn’t yelling?” she grumbles, placing her arm across her face.

“No, he doesn’t,” replies Linhardt, pulling Caspar back. “As much as we all wish he did.”

“I wasn't yelling,” protests Caspar, “trust me, you’d know if I was yelling.”

“You’ll get us kicked out of the infirmary again regardless,” says Linhardt.

_Wait… kicked out of the infirmary… again?_

_How did I end up in the infirmary?_

“Do either of you mind filling me in on what exactly happened?” she says, after her eyes finally adjust to the light.

“You got kidnapped,” answers Caspar, as if that explains everything.

“Yes, I’m aware of that much, thank you, Caspar,” she retorts.

He grins. “You’re welcome!”

“I believe that was sarcasm, Caspar,” says Linhardt.

His smile falls. “Oh.”

“But yes, you were kidnapped,” says Linhardt. “We suspect Professor Jeritza was behind it, but we can’t confirm it. He’s gone missing.”

He pauses, briefly. 

“Although, I guess that could be considered confirmation on its own. Plus, with Professor Manuela saying he attacked her… the evidence _is_ rather damning.”

“Hold on a moment,” says Lysithea. “What happened to Professor Manuela?”

“Oh, not much,” says Linhardt. “She was just stabbed a little bit by Professor Jeritza.”

Before Lysithea can respond, he follows up.

“She’s fine though, not to worry. But behind a secret door in Professor Jeritza’s room was the entrance to a secret underground chamber.”

“Yeah!” says Caspar, nodding. “And we fought off these creepy mage guys and Hubert did this thing with his magic and we all fought the Death Knight and-” Caspar stops for a moment when he notices Lysithea’s unamused expression. “And then after we cleared out all the baddies, we found you, and Flayn, and some weird chick named Monica who was apparently supposed to graduate last year! She was from our house, too.”

 _Monica._ _The name doesn’t ring a bell._

Caspar rubs the back of his neck. “To be honest, you and Flayn didn’t look too good when we found you.”

He points to her arms, which are wrapped up in bandages. 

“Your arms were all cut up,” says Caspar. “And you were coughing a lot, and there was blood and-”

“Caspar, that’s enough,” says Linhardt. Before Lysithea can freak out, Linhardt reassures her. “You’re going to freak her out.”

“He was _not_ ,” protests Lysithea, but Linhardt simply gives her an unamused look that clearly says _“that’s bullshit and you know it.”_

“I won’t lie, your condition wasn’t great. But I was able to keep you stable long enough to get you to the infirmary,” he says. “Professor Manuela and some of the other healers were able to get you in better shape, and well-”

“Wait, you said she got stabbed,” says Lysithea, cutting him off. “If she was stabbed, then how was she healing me?”

Caspar and Linhardt glance at each other, before they both turn to face Lysithea.

She doesn’t like the implications of the glance they sent to each other. Her stomach sinks. Something is wrong.

“Well, uh, y’see…” says Caspar. “You’ve kinda been sleeping for, like, a week?”

“Sleeping?” echoes Lysithea, in disbelief. “For a _week_? Are you joking?”

“Ignore him, you weren’t sleeping,” says Linhardt. “It was actually a coma.”

_In a coma. In a coma for a week._

Linhardt’s words echo in her mind.

_In a coma. One week gone, just like that._

She can feel her heartbeat spike, feel the world start spinning again, because she _can’t—she can’t she can’t she can’t._

_Not again._

“You boys had better not be riling up my patients or I’ll kick you out.”

Lysithea snaps back to reality to see Professor Manuela walking in.

“We weren’t doing anything!” says Caspar, waving his arms.

“I could hear you screaming from down the hall, Mister Bergliez.”

“Oh.” He chuckles awkwardly, giving a sheepish grin. “Oops?”

* * *

Several students are still missing. She was one of the lucky ones, it seems. Professor Jeritza is gone, and the evidence pointing towards him being the Death Knight becomes more and more damning with each day. (Tomas has been more quiet than normal, too, but she suspects that’s just her being paranoid.)

But for most, the worry is overtaken by the excitement for the Battle of Eagle and Lion. They have all trained exceedingly hard over the course of the year, and Lysithea can’t help but be a bit excited, too. 

She’d finally get a chance to fight, to show everyone she’s _not_ a child, that people need to take her seriously. Between Professor Hanneman, Professor Manuela, and Delilah, her skills with reason magic have grown exponentially.

She manages to recover in time for the Battle of Eagle and Lion. The biggest difference from their last inter-house practice battle is that this time, she’s allowed on the field. Everyone is. (Although, she suspects if her condition was bad enough, Professor Manuela would have forbidden her from even stepping a foot near Gronder.)

Their plan is pretty much the same as last time. Lay low, wait for the Black Eagles and Blue Lions to start fighting each other, and then clean up after they’re exhausted.

“Because nobody would expect us to use the same plan twice,” said Claude. “That’d be too predictable.”

Unfortunately, just like last time, the other teams didn’t get the memo. 

Lysithea is stationed on the right side of the field, and her assigned spot is near the Black Eagles’ side. Raphael is there with her for backup, but is still far enough away to where she is virtually on her own. 

When Caspar springs out of the tall grass in front of her, she reacts on instinct, sending Miasmas his way one after another.

“Owww…” he groans. “No fair, you can hit me from a distance.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you rushed me,” she says. “Because I’m pretty sure that didn’t go with your assigned plan, and I don’t even know it.” 

“It didn’t,” says Caspar. “But I couldn’t resist. I already had fought with Raphael and I wanted to show you how strong I’ve gotten this year!”

“You could have done that without running straight for me,” says Lysithea, offering a hand to help him up. “Now go. Shoo. You’re out. Go find the healers.”

“Yes, _mother_ ,” he says.

As Caspar walks away, Lysithea senses a spike in dark energy activity behind her.

Since working with Delilah, she has been able to get a better feel for not only her own magical signature, but also that of others.

It’s how she knows to duck when she feels the energy quickly approaching. When a Miasma Spell flies above where she had previously been, she knows immediately who is at the other end of it.

“Hubert,” she says, hands buzzing with dark energy. “How nice of you to join me.”

She can’t see him, but she knows he is there.

She shoots off a Swarm in the general direction the Miasma had come from with one hand. Her other remains buzzing with energy, ready to attack.

She leans to the side as a ball of dark energy blows past her face, firing one of her own back in return.

“You know it’s rather rude to go for the face, Hubert,” she says. “Perhaps maybe you should come out of those shadows you’re hiding in and face me head on. I know you’re there.”

“Bold of you to assume I need to hide,” replies Hubert, as he finally steps into view, and sends two rapid fire spells at her.

She ducks, sending a spell off in one hand while charging the other up. 

She remembers Delilah’s advice very clearly.

_“If you spend longer channeling, you can increase your spell speed by putting more energy into it, but you have to be careful not to put too much or you’ll destabilize it. It’s a good trick for catching inexperienced mages off guard if they aren’t aware of it.”_

Hubert is not an inexperienced mage, so there is a chance that he, too, knows this trick. But it’s a risk that she is willing to take.

Hubert swiftly moves out of the way of her first spell, but she sends her supercharged spell at him, and it hits him right in the chest before he can move.

She needs to finish this fast. She’s running out of energy, and if this drags on for too long she’ll—

She coughs, and Hubert’s Miasma smacks her right in the stomach before she can move out of the way.

_Damn. He knew the trick too. She should have expected this. Hubert is nothing if not diligent in his studies._

She made a mistake. She’s out. But so is he.

She hopes this will at least give the others a bit more of a chance, having taken out two of the Eagles’ offensive powerhouses.

Unfortunately, it isn’t enough. The Black Eagles end up the victor of the Battle of Eagle and Lion by a landslide. It’s fitting, almost, that the Deer are left out of the name. She knows why they are, historically, but it doesn’t make it any less ironic considering the Golden Deer yet again got absolutely steamrolled. 

But at the very least, this time, she got the chance to take some of their opponents down with her.

If she coughs a bit more than usual for a few days after, it’s just a coincidence.

* * *

The next month after is a blur, with the Black Eagles briefly leaving for a mission in Remire Village, while the Golden Deer are sent off to a coast town to help with a pirate problem. 

Lysithea doesn’t see Tomas for a long time after, and when she inquires as to what happened to him, all she receives are vague, avoiding answers that are not really answers at all. She shoves it into the back of her mind, but something about this whole situation just isn’t _right_.

Red Wolf Moon makes way for Ethereal Moon, and the sands of time continue to fall like the snowflakes that start to become more and more common. 

The overall joyous mood shared among most of the students after the Battle of Eagle and Lion doesn’t die down quickly, and is only reignited by the White Heron Cup. 

Lysithea is grateful she was not selected to represent their house. She has never been one for dancing. Not in front of other people, anyways. And even during the times when she did dance, it was definitely not the type of formal ballroom dancing that is expected in Fodlan. 

Claude ends up the one competing for the cup, but even with extra practice, he is still beaten by Dorothea. Everyone seems slightly disappointed, but not much. While it would have been nice to win, nobody was really all that bothered about winning or losing for more than the sake of house pride.

Most people care more about the ball, anyways. 

Even though the holidays here are different, the end of Dece—Ethereal Moon is still a time of celebration, but for different reasons.

There is music, and dancing, and everyone is smiling, carefree, innocent of the world and all its horrors, forgetting all of their problems just for one night. 

She watches from the sidelines as Claude drags Professor Byleth out to dance. Lysithea has never liked crowds, always having felt out of place in a sea of people. She isn’t much for socializing period, let alone parties. 

But there is one benefit to parties: the food. There is a table piled high with cookies and cakes galore, sweets and candies. There’s actual food, as well, meats, cheeses, and other such fancy party appetizers, but she’s not interested in them. Not when there’s desserts.

She takes an obscene amount of them and loads her plate, before finding a small, quiet table near the corner to sit at.

She is halfway through her third cookie when Linhardt approaches her.

He looks tired, as usual, and he, too, does not seem enthused by the party.

“Is this seat taken?” he says, gesturing towards the seat across from her.

“No,” she replies. “Go ahead.”

Linhardt takes a seat and places his arms on the table, before placing his head on his arms.

“Not going to dance?” says Lysithea. She picks up a mini cake and takes a bite. “I’m surprised you even came, you didn’t seem much of a partying type, Linhardt.”

“That would be because I’m not,” grumbles Linhardt. “Caspar dragged me here.”

He cracks an eye open to glance at her. “Why are you here?” 

“Because I’m obviously hiding my inner raging, wild, party animal,” she says. 

“It’s because of the food, isn’t it,” he says.

“No, actually,” says Lysithea. “It was largely because Hilda said everyone in the Golden Deer _had_ to come, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

She pops another bite of cake into her mouth. “The food certainly helps, though. Don’t get stuff like this every day.”

“It looks the same as the cakes they have around for teatime to me,” says Linhardt.

“That’s because you don’t understand the subtleties in the world of sweets,” she replies. “They’re different.”

She picks up a cookie and holds it in front of him. “See? They add little candies on them for the holidays.”

“That’s not that different,” he replies, shutting his eyes again.

“I never said they were _that_ different, just…different,“ she points out. “Which they are.”

* * *

The Black Eagles leave on another mission with Captain Jeralt, and come back without. 

The joyous mood from the ball is quickly replaced by a somber one. Smiles fall, and even the sky seems to weep as it rains for several days straight.

But the one who is affected the most is Professor Byleth. Classes are cancelled, and she’s spent an awful lot of time in Captain Jeralt’s office.

It’s a bit unsettling to see someone she thought was unbreakable, infallible, even, be so utterly and completely _broken_. The same woman who seemingly was unstoppable, had been reduced to a miserable, crying mess in one fell swoop.

With every Superman comes a kryptonite, with every Achilles comes their Achilles’ heel, with every chain comes a weakest link.

Professor Byleth is no different.

Lysithea has never been good at comforting people. She always feels at a loss for words. No matter how many books she reads, how many times she thinks about what she would do in situations like these that require delicacy, she can never find the right ones to use. 

“I’m sorry,” feels too impersonal. 

“Things will get better,” feels too dismissive.

Doing or saying nothing at all feels insensitive.

But nothing she wants to do, can think of doing, feels _right._

She wants to—no, _needs_ to—do something, but is stopped her own self doubt and anxiety. Her inactivity then in turn causes more anxiety, and the cycle repeats. It is a continuous feedback loop that is hard to break out of.

She has to do _something_ , though. She just doesn’t know what.

In the end, she decides to abide by the golden rule. Treat others as you would want to be treated.

She goes to the dining hall and loads a plate full of an obnoxious amount of sweets, cookies, and cakes. By now, people don’t even give Lysithea a second glance when she does this. It’s normal for her. 

She leaves it on Professor Byleth’s desk with a small note. 

_Sorry for your loss._

_Lysithea von Ordelia_

She doesn’t know what else to say, really, even if she’s not happy with it. She just hopes it’s enough. 

She didn’t want to say it in person partially because Lysithea is sure that Professor Byleth is tired of hearing empty words and condolences, and partially because she doesn’t have the guts to do it herself. She’s awkward enough about this whole situation without having to need to look someone in the eyes, and she’d rather not make things any worse with an unfortunate slip of the tongue when her brain-to-mouth filter decides to shut off at the most inopportune times. 

A few weeks later, Professor Byleth breaks the rules and leaves without permission. Her class follows her. 

She returns with hair as green as the grass, as green as the archbishop’s. 

A date is set for a revelation from the goddess. 

Something is rotten in Garreg Mach Monastery, and Lysithea suspects that the shit is going to hit the fan sooner rather than later.

It’s only a matter of time. 

She just needs to graduate, and then she can leave. It won’t be long now. 

She finishes penning her letter, and the next time she meets up with Delilah for practice, she hands it to her.

“Tell Chad that after I graduate, I’m in.”

She smiles. 

“And your friends?” 

“I haven’t asked them yet,” she replies. “But if I can convince one, the other will follow. And I suspect some of the things you guys have to offer will tempt him. I don’t know his post-graduation plans, but if he’s as much of a research nerd as I think he is, he won’t be able to resist.”

Delilah chuckles. “Virgil will be happy to have more eggheads in the group if you manage to convince em’. Worst case, if you can’t, Virgil said he’d be willing to take on the research himself.”

* * *

Another birthday passes, and she is now four years older than she was supposed to live for.

She is sixteen. Here, it is just another birthday. There are no drivers licenses, no cars, nothing that would make a sixteenth birthday special aside from the fact that Lysithea has outlived her doomsday by four years and counting.

Linhardt and Caspar manage to sneak an hour out of their busy schedules to celebrate with her.

Linhardt gets her several boxes of her favorite taffies, as well as an empty notebook.

When Lysithea gives him an inquisitive glance, he explains.

“In case the one you are always writing in gets full,” he says.

Lysithea looks at it, feeling the smooth leather cover under her fingertips. 

“Thank you,” she says. “This is really nice.”

“Of course,” responds Linhardt.

Caspar takes this as his opportunity and shoves his gift into her face.

“If you think _his_ gift is good, just wait until you see what I got you!” 

From Caspar, she gets a pouch of the jerky he feeds to the cats.

“Thank you, Caspar,” she says. 

“Wait, wait, that’s not all!” he grabs her hand and starts to drag her to who knows where.

“Wait, Caspar where are we—”

She looks over towards Linhardt for help, who gives her a shrug in response.

“Just follow me!” says Caspar, tugging at her arm. She reluctantly allows him to lead her, and they weave through various stone paths and places until they reach a supply shed near the Stables.

“Caspar what are we doing here?” she says, as he opens the door slowly.

He puts a finger up to his lips and motions to shush as he waves her closer.

There, in the corner of the supply shed, on a small pile of straw, is a litter of kittens and their mother.

She lets out a little gasp in spite of herself, because goodness gracious, cats are her kryptonite.

He squats down and pulls out a piece of jerky and offers it to the mother cat. 

“This is Princess,” says Caspar. “I named her that cuz’ she reminded me of Edelgard when I first met her, all stuck up and prissy and white haired and stuff. She’s still stuck up and prissy, but we’re good pals now.”

Lysithea squats down next to him.

“Get out your jerky,” says Caspar. “Since you’re with me, she’ll let you get close to the kittens if you offer her some.”

Lysithea reaches into the little pouch of jerky Caspar had given her earlier, and grabs a piece.

She offers it to Princess, holding out her hand slowly, and the cat sniffs it before taking the offered jerky with a small purr.

Lysithea scratches her behind the ears a little, before moving to pet some of the kittens.

There’s a black and white kitten, a calico, a white one, and a white and orange one. 

They’re all so _small,_ and she is just mesmerized as she sits there and pets them.

Time flies, and before she knows it, Caspar has to leave for class, and she has to as well. 

Lysithea’s birthday does not end up as a large celebration, not extravagant or fancy by any means, but she doesn’t care. It means a lot to her that Caspar and Linhardt went out of their way, to not only spend time with her, but to get her gifts as well, especially considering that they both have been run ragged lately. 

The shadows under Linhardt’s eyes have grown darker and more pronounced, and even Caspar, with all his boundless energy, seems to be running on fumes.

She wants to ask them about coming with her after graduation, but it really doesn’t feel like the right time. They’re both stressed out about the upcoming “revelation” Professor Byleth is having, and they are going to be going with her to the Holy Tomb. 

Judging by the fact that the last time they went to the holy tomb, they were attacked, she’s sure none of them are that enthused to be going back, no matter the reason for it.

But we can’t always get what we want, can we?

* * *

Lysithea knows that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong the moment Professor Byleth does not return from the Holy Tomb. And neither do the rest of the Black Eagles.

“She’s a traitor,” says the Archbishop. “They all are. They’re traitors, filthy, heretic thieves that will receive the punishment they deserve.”

Professor Byleth is many things. She is a teacher, a tactician, a mercenary. She is anything but a traitor.

Professor Byleth would never do anything without a reason. There has to be a reason, there _has_ to be. It means that Lysithea is right, something _is_ rotten in the Church of Seiros. But so, too, is there something rotten in the Adrestian Empire. 

Linhardt and Caspar have left her behind, everyone does, they always do. She is always left behind, for bigger, better things—bigger, better people—because no matter what she does, how hard she works, she is _never good enough._

Fodlan is a mess, a filthy, rotting mess. And despite how much she wants to ignore it, the fact remains that the Adrestian Empire has declared war on the Church of Seiros, and their army is slowly but surely making their way to Garreg Mach. Several of the students are gearing up to fight.

She and Claude share an uncomfortable glance. They both are well aware that everything about this whole situation is wrong, but what are they going to do? They are but children in an adult’s world, and Claude has a duty to his country and his people. For him to turn away from the church, too, would only further make things worse. She knows he isn’t a believer, not really. But as nobility, you learn to act the part. 

Lysithea has no loyalty to Claude. Not enough to make her stay, anyways. They are friendly, but they are not _friends._ And she suspects that Claude is aware of this, too. 

The tension in Garreg Mach Monastery grows with every passing day, and Lysithea knows that war will be coming soon.

With Linhardt and Caspar gone and branded as traitors, and Professor Hanneman run ragged pulling double teaching duty, her reasons for staying are gone. 

She doesn’t want to die in a war she has no part in.

(Lysithea doesn’t want to die _period_ , but she has accepted that it will happen, and it will happen sooner rather than later at the pace things have been going.)

Lysithea meets up with Delilah later that night.

“I’m packing my bags tonight,” says Lysithea. “How soon will you guys be ready to leave?”

“As soon as you are ready, so are we,” she says. “I don’t fancy staying around and getting caught in a war.”

“Me either,” says Lysithea. “I’ll be likely ready by tomorrow. I need to pack, but I want to leave as soon as possible, before shit _really_ hits the fan.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, honey,” replies Delilah. “We’re ready when you are.”


	7. Chapter 7

She packs her bags in a whirlwind of clothes and books, hastily folding her shirts. One by one, they go into the bag. 

She leaves the skirts behind. She’d never liked them, much preferring pants. They’re far more practical, and considering that she won’t need her academy uniform anymore, she’ll be free to wear what she wishes. It’s not like a mercenary group is going to tell her what to wear, after all. So long as it’s practical and she can get the job done in it, Lysithea doubts they will care.

She’ll likely have some light armor made. Or perhaps some robes? She’s not sure. But she’ll figure it out once she gets settled. The home base of the Yeet Mercenary Company is a few days away by horse, and a few more on foot. It’s not terribly far, but it’s far enough away to where she’s sufficiently satisfied she won’t get caught up in the shitstorm that is slowly but surely making its way towards Garreg Mach.

She starts to fold her pants once she finishes the shirts.

“Well, you seem to be in quite the hurry. What’s the rush?”

Lysithea pauses.

She turns to see Claude leaning on the side of her doorway.

“Take a guess,” she responds, finishing the pair of pants she was folding and neatly placing it in her bag. 

Claude gives an exaggerated frown and rubs his chin. “Why, Lysithea, you wouldn’t be planning on ditching school, would you?” He gasps. “How _naughty_. Who would’ve thought, Lysithea von Ordelia, star student, is secretly a truant?”

She frowns.

She’s well aware he knows why she’s packing. (Or can at least take a good guess, anyways.) She knows it, anyone with half a brain would know it, and if Caspar was here, even he’d be able to figure it out, too. 

She has to admit the fact that he and Linhardt were gone without so much as a goodbye, that they left her behind, hurts.

As she goes about Garreg Mach, there are pieces of them everywhere she goes. The smell of the dusty books and tomes in the library, the little pouch of jerky that rests on her nightstand, the sound of gauntlets hitting the training dummies, they are all simply more reasons to add to the list of why she can’t stay.

“I’m not a truant,” she says, grabbing another pair of pants from her dresser. “Not when school is going to be cancelled soon anyways, with the inevitable war on the horizon.”

She turns and looks at him, and he looks right back.

He gives her a smile. 

“That’s fair enough,” he says. “You’ve got a point there.”

She’s sure he’d ditch too, if he could. She doesn’t know Claude that well, but she knows him well enough to know that he, like most sane people, would rather not get caught up in war. But she expected him to protest more. To ask why, why she is leaving them behind, not supporting him, not supporting _them._

In truth, she feels a bit guilty for planning to leave her classmates behind. While she has never been truly _close_ with any of them, she wishes them the best and has at least a friendly but formal relationship with most.

Claude glances towards the many empty drawers that lie open and empty. 

“I’d suggest you leave soon if you don’t want to get caught up in everything,” he says.

“I was planning to,” she replies. “By tomorrow, I’ll be gone.”

He doesn’t respond, but she can practically _feel_ his curiosity. Despite herself, she lets her guilt get the better of her.

“I know that it doesn’t mean a lot, considering I’m abandoning everyone,” she starts, before Claude holds up a hand.

“You’re not abandoning anyone,” he says. “You’re making a smart choice. And not all of us have that option. I won’t fault you for taking the easy way out.”

While she appreciates his reassurance, it still annoys her to get interrupted.

“If you would let me _finish_ , I was going to say, that if things get really bad, and you need me, I’ll be there.”

Claude smiles. 

“Thanks, Lysithea. I appreciate it. It’ll be nice to have some more folks that have my back, because I’ve got a feeling when things start to heat up, the roundtable’s gonna become a real doozy. When you eventually take over for your parents, those old bastards aren’t going to be ready for you to cut through their bullshit.” He chuckles. “I can already imagine the look on their faces.”

She sighs.

“Claude, I’m not taking over for my parents. Or going home, for that matter.” She walks over to her desk, and rifles through her drawer until she finds her notepad— _the one Linhardt gave her_ , _don’t think about him, don’t think about him, just hurry up and get the stupid paper, Lysithea._

She tries and fails not to think about him as she quickly opens it and tears out a page.

She scribbles down some contact information, and holds it out for Claude.

“I have my own problems to deal with, my own goals to achieve,” she says. “So if you need me, _really_ need me, here’s where I’ll be. But otherwise? I won’t be around.”

“Do they know?” asks Claude. “Your parents?”

“No,” she replies. “And it’s better they don’t. If they had it their way I never would have come to Garreg Mach, and never would have left the estate in general.”

Claude doesn’t respond with words, but Lysithea freezes when she feels a pair of arms enclose around her. 

She never was the biggest fan of hugs, but she has to admit that it’s nice to get one from someone once in a while.

She slowly but surely raises her arms and hugs him back.

He lets her go, and places his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes

“Thanks, Lysithea,” he says. “For everything.”

_Don’t thank me, I’m abandoning you, you stupid, clever asshole._

“I’m sorry,” she replies. “For everything.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for. This shitshow isn’t your fault.”

The smile he sends her is warm, but the ache in her chest makes it feel all too bitter. 

She knows she shouldn’t be sorry for looking out for herself, but she can’t help it. 

Lysithea is not a good person. She’s selfish. And she’s well aware of this.

It doesn’t make processing the guilt any easier.

* * *

She leaves Garreg Mach with Delilah the next morning. Horses, luckily, are not as averse to her presence as the pegasi were, so she settles in on a horse named Tiny—who, ironically, is anything but. He’s a massive grey draft horse, who wouldn’t have looked out of place pulling a plow or a cart. 

When she asks Delilah why he is named Tiny, she receives a laugh.

“Because Chad thought it was funny,” she says, and doesn’t elaborate more.

She supposes it's some sort of inside joke. Or just purely ironic. Lysithea is not sure which.

It’s a familiar feeling, being on a horse. It’s one she really didn’t realize she missed until recently. Lysithea would have probably rediscovered it sooner had she not avoided the stables out of spite due to the pegasi. (Aside from the month of stall mucking, that is.)

The biggest problem, though, is that the muscle memory she had, the skills from before, none of it works for someone of her size. She’s smaller than she used to be. She no longer is the subject of japes about being a giant, but instead, the opposite. 

While she enjoys riding, after a few hours on the road she remembers why she doesn’t do it— _especially_ not for long periods of time.

Despite what many people think, the horses do not do all the work. After a while, muscles you aren’t even aware you _have_ start to burn. It’s hard work, and for someone who isn’t in great shape, it starts to take its toll.

Lysithea starts coughing, and even though she insists that she is okay to keep going, Delilah has everyone stop to rest.

“We needed to eat soon anyways,” says Delilah.

_Bullshit. We weren’t supposed to stop for another few hours._

Lysithea purses her lips and simply ties Tiny up next to the other horses on a fallen tree trunk. 

The others start to gather some firewood and unload some gear to start cooking, likely stew of some sort. Lysithea moves to help, but she is stopped by Delilah.

“Sit. We’ve got this,” she says. “You go rest, honey.”

“But-” starts Lysithea, before she is stopped by the need to cough. Something blocks her airway and she coughs just enough to move it slightly so she can get a breath of fresh air.

Delilah simply gives Lysithea a stern look. Lysithea frowns, but it’s obvious that Delilah won’t be changing her mind.

She takes a seat on a rock and watches as the others get to work.

Her coughing doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets worse. There’s something in the back of her throat that makes it so she just can’t _breathe_ , and if she could just get it out—

She clenches her eyes, and— _ohgoditburns—_ with one especially large cough, she can breathe again. Her lungs are on fire, and her throat burns, but she can breathe.

Air. Sweet, sweet air.

She takes a deep breath. Her lips are wet, and her mouth tastes like iron. Lysithea glances down at the ground only to see a small spatter of red.

_Blood._

She’s running out of time. She knows this, knows this fact all too well, in fact. 

Lysithea pulls out a small cloth from her pocket and wipes her lips, crumpling it up and shoving it back in afterwards.

She spends a while simply sitting there and staring at the tiny spatter of blood, only a few drops, hardly noticeable unless you got up close. She stares at it for what feels like a while, as if glaring it into submission would make it disappear.

_I’m not dying. I’m not._

When the stew is finally ready, and she joins the others, it is clear she is in a foul mood. But she is no longer coughing. 

For now.

“Feeling any better?” asks Delilah. 

“Yes,” she lies. “I’m fine now.”

They eat a relatively quiet meal, and Lysithea sits and eats and listens to everyone’s conversations.

Before they leave, while nobody is looking, Lysithea reaches into her pocket and throws the bloodstained cloth into the fire. 

She watches as it quickly turns to ash in the last remaining embers.

She stomps out the fire after.

* * *

The home base of the Yeet Mercenary Company is less of a base, and more of a town. So much so, that people even gave it a name, it seems.

As she enters with the others through a dirt path by the front, Lysithea notices a sign that says “Welcome to Funkytown.”

She lets out an amused huff. Of course it’s more puns. Lysithea doesn’t know why she expected anything different.

Nothing here is normal, not when everyone here is a walking contradiction to the permanence of death. Here, being out of the norm _is_ normal.

Nobody gives a second glance towards her because of her bleach-white hair, but instead are more interested in her due to who she is with.

As they pass a blacksmith, one of the guys working the forge looks up and waves.

“Hey, Dee,” he calls, “How was the contract? You pick up a newbie?”

“Contract was good, Fred,” responds Delilah, “and yes, we picked up a newbie. A mage, too.”

“Oh man, is this the chick Virgil wouldn’t shut up about?”

Delilah laughs. “The very same. I’ll see ya’ around, y’know how Virgil gets when he’s forced to wait.”

Lysithea frowns. “What does he mean ‘the chick Virgil wouldn’t shut up about’?”

She hasn’t even _met_ the guy, and although they’ve communicated through letters and have exchanged various tips, she doesn’t consider them to be that close.

Delilah grins. “Virgil gets very excited to have new people to talk magic with. Gets very hyperfixated on things he’s passionate about, and his mouth will run a mile a minute.”

They slowly approach the stables, where two boys eagerly come to take the reins of their horses.

“He’s been _very_ excited to meet you,” she says.

They hop off of their horses, and getting off of Tiny is quite the drop.

“Why?” asks Lysithea.

She can’t for the life of her understand why he would be _that_ excited to meet her. Especially considering she’s shoving the burden of finding a cure to a seemingly incurable condition on him. That type of work usually isn’t something one would get excited over.

“I don’t think anyone understands what goes through Virgil’s head but him,” says Delilah. “But you don’t give yourself enough credit, sweetheart. You’re pretty incredible _._ I know of many mages who wouldn’t even have ever _dreamed_ of getting to your level.”

“So? I had a head start,” grumbles Lysithea. “Most mages didn’t. I already knew a lot of math, and my family was fortunate enough to be able to hire tutors.”

Delilah shakes her head. “Even considering that, you’re just not getting it. You’ve got a knack for magic that a lot of people don’t, and the work ethic to do something with it. There’s a reason there aren’t a lot of dark mages running around, Lysithea.”

“Because it’s difficult to study, and thus expensive to be taught?” says Lysithea.

“No,” says Delilah, before pausing and correcting herself. “Well, yes, but not really. Not entirely. You can learn dark magic without a lot of fancy tutoring, it just won’t be as refined.”

“What do you mean you can learn magic without tutoring? What, do people just magically guess spell circle composition? I’m sorry, but the very _notion_ of such a thing is ridiculous.”

Delilah shakes her head. “Spell circles are a tool _,_ Lysithea, not a necessity. They make magic easier and more reliable for people to learn, because they standardize things.”

Delilah holds up a small wisp of flame on one of her fingers. 

“With smaller, lower level spells, they let pretty much anyone be capable of casting, even if they don’t have any real aptitude. But the flaws of spell circles start to show when you get to the higher level magic, because magic is different for everyone. You can’t try to categorize it and shove it into designations and boxes when you’re trying to do complex spells that even the slightest difference can upset.”

She lets the flame blow out only to summon up a little ball of dark energy.

“Everyone has affinities towards different types of magic,” she says. “Most people, if they’ve got a reason magic affinity, find themselves attuned towards thunder, wind, or fire. A smaller percentage of people find themselves attuned to ice. And an even _smaller_ percentage of people are attuned towards dark magic.”

Delilah holds up her other hand to point at Lysithea and then back to herself. “People like you and I are more inclined towards dark magic, which is extremely uncommon.”

Delilah lets the dark energy fizzle out and crosses her arms. Lysithea frowns, confused. She doesn’t understand why this matters. 

“Tell me, Lysithea, what did your tutors tell you about how someone’s magical talent is determined?”

“That magic is tied to the soul. One’s magical potential can be told from birth, and honed from there,” she answers, without thinking. 

It is only after saying it out loud that things truly start to click into place.

_Magic is tied to the soul. Potential is determined from birth, but must be honed in order to make full use of it._

Honed. The many hours she spent slaving over spell circles, studying energy flow, time spent flinging spell after spell at training dummies, and the excruciating amount of time she spent trying and failing to learn ice magic— Lysithea is not ashamed to say that she worked her ass off to get where she is today.

“You’re good at magic because you worked at it,” says Delilah. “Sure, it might have helped a little bit that your family was well off, but you have a grasp on dark magic that many people with all the resources in the world would never be able to get _close_ to.”

“Well of course they wouldn’t be able to,” she replies. “Most people don’t have an affinity for it.”

Delilah groans. “Lysithea, Affinities aren’t everything. They help, sure, but simply having an affinity for an element doesn’t make you suddenly an expert in it.”

“But having an affinity still helps,” counters Lysithea. “I still had an advantage. It doesn’t mean I’m some amazing mage.”

“How many times do I have to say this? Affinities. Don’t. Mean. Shit,” says Delilah, holding up a finger to shush Lysithea when she moves to protest. “Y’know how I know that? Almost every mage in our company has a dark magic affinity. But there are only _three_ here that can cast dark spikes.”

She raises a finger. 

“Virgil.”

A second finger. 

“Me.”

She raises a third finger, then moves to point at Lysithea.

“And now, you. You’re not good simply because of your affinity. You’re good because you’re you, and you’re a hardworking girl who doesn’t take no for an answer. So shut up, and let me give you a compliment. Because you’re good at magic, and, like you, I don’t take no for an answer. Neither will Virgil.”

Delilah places a hand behind Lysithea’s back and gently pushes her forward.

“Now c’mon, we don’t want to keep him waiting. He’ll get cranky if we take too long.”

* * *

When they finally arrive at Virgil’s office, in a small building near the edge of town, it’s the exact opposite of what Lysithea expected.

There are papers scattered everywhere on the desk in disorganized piles, and the bookshelves are stuffed to the brim with books with a few papers sticking out inbetween them.

Virgil is so absorbed in whatever he is reading that he doesn’t even notice when she and Delilah walk into the room. 

He only looks up when Delilah lightly smacks the table.

“Oi, egghead, I’m back!” she says. “And look who I brought, it’s your new best friend!”

His glasses fall off his face a little bit as he startles to attention, taking notice of the fact he is no longer alone.

“Oh!” he says. “Oh! You’re here! How wonderful!”

He quickly sets his book down, before getting up and hastily cleaning up some of the papers on the chairs in front of his desk.

“I apologize for the mess,” he says.

“No you don’t,” replies Delilah. “Your office is always a mess.”

“It’s organized chaos, thank you very much. I know where everything is,” he replies.

He sets down the papers on his desk before turning back around and offering his hand. 

“A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Lysithea.”

Lysithea takes his hand and shakes it. For such a lean man, his grip is surprisingly firm.

“The same to you,” she replies. “Although I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

“I’ll leave you two nerds to it, then,” says Delilah. “Virgil, if she gets bored of your rambling, send her back my way.”

“Excuse you, I do not ramble. Everything I say is perfectly clear and understandable,” says Victor, returning to his seat. “You simply don’t appreciate my genius.”

“I do, but I can only listen to you yammer for so long,” replies Delilah. “Later, fellas.”

Delilah leaves the office with a laugh. 

“Take a seat,” says Virgil. “I apologize for the mess.”

“It’s not that bad,” says Lysithea, but even by her standards (which admittedly are rather lax), his office is messy. She doesn’t say it, though. She’d rather not ruin a friendship before it can even form by running her mouth. “I’ve seen worse.”

Virgil hums as he opens one of his desk drawers and rifles through it before pulling out a notebook and flipping it open to a fresh page.

“So,” he says. “How long have you been coughing up blood?”

“Excuse me?”

Virgil pulls out a quill, dipping it in ink.

“Your boot has a bit of blood on it,” he explains. “And since you didn’t get into any fights on the way here, the only logical explanation is that it came from you.”

He scribbles a header in what she assumes are his notes. He doesn’t even give her a chance to deny it before he continues.

“So, allow me to repeat myself. How long have you been coughing up blood?” He looks up at her, waiting expectantly.

“About two weeks,” she replies.

“Oh dear,” says Virgil, quicky writing more notes. “This is a recent development, then?”

“Yes,” she confirms, playing with her hands on her lap. “And it’s only occasional.”

Virgil hums.

“You had said you were working on this with one of your classmates, correct? I don’t suppose you were able to convince him to come with you?”

Lysithea clenches her fists in her lap.

“No,” she replies. “He had other plans, it seems.”

Her chest tightens, and the whole situation is still far too raw. She still hasn’t had time to fully process things.

“A shame.” Virgil pouts slightly, before glancing up towards her again one more time.

“I don’t suppose you happen to have any of his notes, then, do you?” he says. “It’d be helpful to have a starting point so we don’t have to waste time redoing what you two have already done.”

“He took his,” she says, pulling out a notebook from her satchel by her feet, “But I have my own copy.”

She places the notebook on the desk and slides it over towards Virgil, who eagerly takes it and starts to read through it.

“Wonderful,” he says. 

Lysithea has never been so grateful that she insisted on a copy of their notes for herself as well.

“I’ll work on getting up to speed on these,” he says. “You can go now, I’ll send for you if I need you.”

She is taken aback a little bit. Does this guy not have any tact?

Virgil notices she hasn’t left, and gives Lysithea a questioning glance.

“Is there something else you needed?” he asks.

“No,” she replies. “No, there isn’t.”

* * *

Lysithea finds Delilah, predictably, at the pub. What Lysithea doesn’t expect as she walks in, however, is that instead of drinking, Delilah is kissing the woman behind the counter.

There are other people around, of course— Lysithea sees several sitting at the counter, chatting and laughing (and many more at the tables.) But there is nobody else she _knows_. Not really. 

She doesn’t want to interrupt, and luckily, she doesn’t have to, as the woman behind the counter notices Lysithea awkwardly standing there.

Delilah turns toward her with a grin, and Lysithea suddenly feels like she is a rabbit who has walked right into the lion’s den.

“Sarah, this is Lysithea,” she says, nudging her forwards towards the bar.

“Well aren’t you just cute as a button!” says Sarah with a smile, before she looks Lysithea up and down and frowns slightly. “You look like you could use a good meal. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

Sarah walks away into what Lysithea assumes is the kitchen. Delilah laughs and takes a seat next to Lysithea, patting her on the back.

“She’s a bit of a mother-hen,” says Delilah. “Likes to feed people more than Grandma at Thanksgiving dinner.” 

“But I’m not hungry,” protests Lysithea, and she’s not lying. Her appetite hasn’t been great lately.

“Once she brings out a plate of casserole, you will be,” says Delilah. 

“But-”

Delilah cuts her off.

“Listen, sweetheart, even if you’re not hungry, you haven’t eaten since lunch. You gotta eat something.”

“I have eaten since lunch, actually,” counters Lysithea. 

“Oh, really?” Delilah raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Taffies,” Lysithea replies, and she shrinks in her chair a little at the look Delilah gives her in response.

Sarah comes back rather quickly, and sets a plate full of what appears to be chicken and rice casserole. 

The smell of it brings her back to simpler times, when her mom would cook up a big batch of it and she’d eat it all week. It was her favorite meal.

Lysithea takes a bite under the watchful gazes of Sarah and Delilah, and almost wants to cry at how good it is. It’s been so long since she’d had casserole, and while Sarah’s recipe is slightly different than her mom’s was, it’s just as delicious.

Lysithea hears a laugh as she goes back for her second bite.

“I told you you’d be hungry,” says Delilah. “There isn’t anybody who’s immune to Sarah’s cooking.”

“You flatterer,” says Sarah. “You know damn well I don’t cook half as well as my momma did.”

Delilah shrugs. “Well I never met your momma, so you’re still the best cook I’ve ever met, darling.”

“Oh hush.”

Delilah shrugs. “I’m just telling the truth. Ain’t anything wrong with stating the facts.”

Lysithea zones out a little bit as she eats, and Delilah and Sarah’s chatter becomes white noise on the edge of her senses.

Her head is throbbing, and she is tired.

Lysithea places her spoon neatly on the plate.

“I don’t feel well,” she says. “I’m going to bed early, I think, if you wouldn’t mind showing me where I’ll be sleeping?”

Delilah guides her to her room, before leaving back for the pub.

* * *

When Lysithea finally reaches her bed, she is so tired that she passes out almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.

Her dreams are filled with distant memories, so close, yet so far out of reach.

Lysithea has hazy memories of family movie nights, cuddled up on the couch with the cat and the dog and some popcorn. She can hear the echoing laughter of her father at a particularly stupid joke, can smell the popcorn her sister made on the stove, can feel the warmth of the blankets.

Lysithea wakes up to her lungs burning, and an uncontrollable coughing fit.

It takes a while for her to fall back asleep, and a copious amount of sugary candy to soothe her throat.

When she finally does fall back asleep, her mom, her dad, and her sister are no longer there.

She finds herself sat on the couch in front of the TV. It’s dark, and the glow of the television reflects off her glasses slightly.

The cat is curled up on her lap, and she feels as her hands move on their own, pressing buttons to input commands for a game she has long since forgotten.

The music is fuzzy, so much so that she can’t identify the tune, or the beat. TV is just as much so, a hazy image, a blur of colors.

She reaches for the cat, and he turns his face towards her in turn. She swears he _smiles_ at her a little bit as she scratches behind his ears.

She pulls her hand back, and the cat watches, green eyes peering right into her soul.

“You don’t belong here anymore,” he says.

_Of course I belong here. It’s home._

“It’s not your home,” says the cat, as if reading her thoughts. “It’s _hers_.”

“But I am her!” she screams, but the strange creature that wears the skin of her sweet, shy, cat is unperturbed.

“You’re not,” he says. “You _were_ her, but you aren’t anymore.”

“Who am I, then?” she replies, because truly, she doesn’t know. She’s not Lucy anymore, she’s not Lysithea, she doesn’t know _who_ she is.

“How would I know?” He gets up and stretches, kneading his paws into her thighs. “Who you are is up to you to decide, not I.”

Lysithea sees one last toothy grin before her eyes shoot open.

The cat is gone, but his words still linger.

_“Who you are is up to you to decide, not I.”_

* * *

Lysithea wakes the next morning to the news that Garreg Mach has fallen, and Fodlan is officially at war.

It’s not unexpected news, but she still can’t quite process it.

_War._

Before, war had always been around, yes, but it never was close enough to her to really impact her life directly. The war was oceans away, and she had only seen videos on the news.

“War” read the headlines, but back at home, not much changed.

School didn’t cancel, the skies were still blue, the sun still rose and set. The birds kept chirping, the wind kept blowing, the world kept turning.

The same is true here.

The blacksmiths are still at the forges, the farmers at the fields, the scholars at their desks.

They are far enough from the frontlines in Funkytown to not be affected that much.

The Yeet Mercenary Company have been preparing for something like this for a long time, and are mostly self- sufficient. When supply lines are inevitably cut off, and things become more expensive, the Yeet Mercenary Company will be fine.

But will her classmates?

Lysithea briefly wonders if Claude made it out ok, but quickly dismisses the thought. 

He must have. He’s crafty, and he wouldn’t let himself go down that easily. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows it’s a possibility that he lies dead under the rubble, but she’d like to hope it didn’t happen.

But it’s war, after all, and in war, things happen. 

One wrong move, and there’s a dagger in your throat, a spell hitting you in the chest, or an arrow in your knee. 

One wrong move, and it is _you_ who lies dead on a field covered in blood, not your enemy. 

Lysithea has no time to worry about a war that does not concern her.

She spends the next few weeks hunched over stacks of papers. Virgil makes an efficient research partner, and with his help, the speed of her research almost doubles. 

His collection of rare texts does not hurt, either. There are books upon books, scrolls upon scrolls, things that she would have never been able to get her hands on at Garreg Mach. If they were to be there, there would have likely been several conspicuously missing volumes. 

There is everything from the History of Dagda, a cookbook from Duscur, Almyran weaving techniques, and of course— _crests._

Many of the texts he has concerning the history of crests are conflicting. Alongside the religious scripture that decreed crests to be gifts from the goddess are accounts of a great war with the first crest users, battles alongside beasts larger than several men. 

Could they have been demonic beasts? Lysithea knows that demonic beasts are related to crests— she _heard_ what happened to Miklan in that tower—but she doesn’t know enough as to what that relationship _is_ to go jumping to conclusions immediately.

Demonic beasts are not _that_ common, although they have become a bigger problem as of late. 

But if there _were_ demonic beasts back then, what happened to them? 

Today, there are often reports of villages razed, herds of livestock slaughtered—surely if they were around back then, there would have been some sort of historical account of their presence.

There are vague accounts here and there, yes, but nothing that would match the scale of what was described.

_“Hundreds of beasts clashing on the battlefield like titans.”_

Dealing with just one or two demonic beasts was hard enough, and she can’t even imagine what it’d be like if one were to find themself around hundreds. 

Something doesn’t add up, but she has no way to really confirm her suspicions. Texts about that time are few and far between, and the tale of what _actually_ happened back then is likely lost to the sands of time.

But despite how fascinating demonic beasts are, they are not really what she should be focusing on. While they do seem to be related to crests, she doesn’t see any sort of connection as to how doing more research into this subject would help with her situation.

Lysithea places her notes into a folder labeled “Demonic Beasts” and files it in the back of a cabinet. She can worry about it later.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hey Lysithea,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Trying to get this to you turned out to be harder than I would have originally thought, but the guy you told me to get in contact with, Randy, must have found a way if you’re reading this._

_I’m not going to beat around the bush, things don’t look good. But as of now, there’s nothing much you’d be able to help with even if you were here. I don’t know if you heard, but Dimitri’s been arrested. They say that he murdered his uncle. He’s set to be executed in a week._

_Faerghus is in chaos. The state of the Alliance isn’t great either, but compared to Faerghus, I’d say that we’re doing pretty well._

_Hilda came to visit the other day—she says hi, by the way. The bracelet that came with this letter is from her. She made it herself, believe it or not._

_I hope life is treating you well. (As well as it can treat you, anyways, given the circumstances.)_

_Stay in touch._

_Claude._

* * *

_Hey Lysithea,_

_Dimitri’s dead. Some part of me still doesn’t want to believe it. As much as I wish it wasn’t true, it certainly seems to be._

_The new person in charge of Faerghus is a supporter of the Empire. The Faerghus Dukedom, they’re trying to call it now. It doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as nicely as “The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus” in my opinion._

_The southern half of Faerghus is as good as gone to the Empire. Whatever chance Faerghus might have had died with Dimitri, and I fear the Alliance’s might have as well._

_There’s fear that Faerghus will fall completely. Several houses still fight in the name of house Blaiddyd, including Fraldarius, Gautier, and possibly Galatea as well, but they won’t be able to keep fighting forever. Sooner or later, we will be forced to fight a war on two fronts._

_The roundtable is in chaos. Honestly, I don’t know how my grandfather manages to keep everyone together. Count Gloucester has been especially hard to deal with lately. Several of the members, including him, believe it is inevitable that we will lose to the Empire and wish to secure their positions by licking the Empire’s boots._

_While they aren’t wrong that it’s unlikely we will win, to give up so early seems foolish to me. You never know the way a game will end at the very beginning, after all. There’s so many moving pieces, and honestly, I’m not sure anyone knows what the world will be like in five years._

_Will we have lost? Won? Will the war still be raging? Who knows. I’ll keep you updated as I learn more._

_Claude._

* * *

_Hey Lysithea,_

_Grandfather’s sick. The healers say it’s stress, and that he’ll be fine in no time, but he’s not young. He claims he’s fine, though, so we’ll have to see. He’s clearly not thrilled at the idea of having to hand the reins over to me, so maybe that alone will keep him going through the end of the war. (Hopefully that will be sooner rather than later.)_

_On a lighter note, how is your research going? I know the libraries at Garreg Mach didn’t have quite as large of a selection as you’d hoped. I found something in the Riegan personal collection here in Derdriu that I thought you might be interested in, so I sent it with this letter. (It’s a copy, so don’t worry about needing to send it back.)_

_The recipe you sent along for “casserole” was really good. No wonder it’s your favorite. You said it comes in many flavors, would you perhaps send along some of the recipes for those?_

_Talk to you soon._

_Claude._

* * *

_Hey Lysithea,_

_Thanks for sending along more recipes. I think you might have converted me to being a casserole lover. Lorenz reluctantly tried some the other day. Said it looked like “prison gruel.” Once he stopped complaining and actually tried some, though, he cleaned his plate._

_I’m glad your research is going well, and I’m even more glad the texts I sent you were useful. While it isn’t a cure, progress is progress, right?_

_Speaking of progress, I have semi-good news from Faerghus. Houses Fraldarius, Gautier, and Galatea have been able to mostly hold their own so far. Most of the imperial troops aren’t used to the cold, it seems, and everyone knows you don’t mess with Faerghus winters._

_Realistically, they won’t be able to hold off forever, given their lack of resources and farmland, but it helps to buy us some more time, at the very least._

_You probably won’t hear back from me for a while. I have to leave Derdriu for a bit to take care of some things, so Hilda and Lorenz are so kindly going to be keeping the roundtable occupied in my absence._

_Hilda’s surprisingly good at politics, believe it or not. She’s able to lead around those old codgers with the tip of her finger. It’s honestly impressive. I told her not to read any of my mail, but you know how nosy she gets. If you send anything, you’re likely to get a reply from her. In fact I’d probably guarantee it, she’s nosy and likes to read my mail whenever she’s here._

_I’ll let you know when I get back. Who knows, maybe I’ll pick something up for you along the way._

_Claude._

* * *

_Hey Lysithea!_

_This is Hilda, not Claude. Surprise!_

_Long time no talk, huh? How have you been? Claude left me here with Lorenz AND all his work. Pretty rude of him, don’t you think? Like, he didn’t even tell me he was leaving until an hour before he left!_

_Just between you and me— he owes me BIGTIME for this._

_It’s not fun, but at the very least, Claude did say that he’d pick up some cute accessories or something for me while he’s away to make up for the trouble. I guess that helps a little._

_Oh, by the way, when were you going to tell me about the fact you did a job for my brother? I would have stopped in to say hi if you had told me! Instead I had to find out after the fact from my big, stupid brother. (He thinks you’re a riot, apparently.)_

_Tell me next time you’re in the area, and we can meet up for tea or something, okay?_

_Hilda_

* * *

_Hey Lysithea!_

_I am actually going to murder Claude. I don’t think that man knows what an accessory is, because it sure as hell ISN’T a wyvern egg. I wanted like—I don’t know, a ribbon or a bow or something? Boys are so stupid sometimes, I swear. But I did always think being a wyvern rider would be pretty cool, though, so I guess that’s a plus._

_Claude took off again for another week or so. Said he needed to take care of “one more thing”, whatever that means. And let me tell you, his grandfather was NOT happy about that at all. I swear, you could probably hear their shouting match for miles. Yikes._

_Marianne came to visit with her father. I’m not gonna lie, she doesn’t seem to be doing too well . To be honest, as soon as Claude gets back, I’m probably going to go spend some more time with her. She seems to really need someone to be there for her right now._

_Hopefully, I’ll talk to you at some point soon. By the time your reply comes, Claude will likely be back and I’ll be gone. I’ll say it again—if you’re ever nearby Goneril territory, let me know. I’d love to catch up a bit. Send me a letter once in a while._

_Hilda_

* * *

_Hey Lysithea,_

_I hope Hilda didn’t give you too much trouble while I was gone. I know she can be a bit pushy sometimes._

_While I was gone, I met a merchant from Morfis who (among other things) was selling some date candies that are to die for. I sent some along with this letter, so let me know what you think of them._

_I’m still on the hunt for more texts that could be useful for you, but other than the ones I already sent you, I’ve been coming up largely empty-handed._

_If you want me to, though, I can contact Ignatz and Raphael. Through their connections in the merchant’s guild, they might be able to help us find more than I can on my own. It likely won’t be cheap, though. Especially considering that with the war, prices will be steeper than usual._

_Let me know what you think._

_Claude._

* * *

_Hey Lysithea,_

_Turns out money and connections really can get a lot done. I appreciate you being willing to chip in, because I wouldn’t have been able to get my hands on this alone—even for a friend. I guess your mercenary work is paying off then, huh?_

_In the future, I’d honestly recommend just contacting Ignatz directly, if you’re comfortable with it. I don’t mind being the middleman, of course, but you’d get your hands on things faster that way._

_I know you were rather leery of giving your contact info out to the others though, so I figured I’d leave it up to you. If you do choose to go to Ignatz directly, I can promise you he’s very professional. So is his older brother, for that matter. Think about it._

_Claude._

* * *

_Hey Lysithea,_

_Grandfather’s gone. Last night, he was fine, this morning, he wasn’t._

_I honestly don’t know how to feel about it. I haven’t even had time to process things. Judith’s been helping me out, as well as Hilda and Lorenz, but honestly? No wonder Grandfather was stressed. The roundtable’s a mess, and it’s only become an even bigger one since I took the reins._

_Many of the others don’t trust me. Whether they simply don’t trust my leadership, or my reputation, I don’t know, but I can definitely say our fragile unified front has all but gone out the window._

_Count Gloucester seems to believe that without Grandfather, we have no chance, and we should just give up now. And honestly, it seems like no matter what I say, no matter what I do, I can’t appease everyone._

_Offer one thing to one noble, another gets fussy. It’s wake up, work, train, sleep. I barely had time to write this letter, even. I’m likely going to have to find someone to help with the paperwork. I can’t physically do it all myself, and Lorenz can only do so much under the watchful eyes of his father. Hilda, too, has other responsibilities. No wonder Grandfather always shoved so much of his work on me. I would, too, in his place._

_I don’t suppose you’d be open to doing a job for a friend, would you? I’ve got some things that need taking care of, and ideally, I would have liked to be able to sneak away and do things myself, but… that’s not really an option anymore. You’d be compensated well, of course._

_Let me know._

_Claude._

* * *

The gates of Derdriu are massive. They make Claude feel like an ant in comparison to its towering arches, marble and carved with intricate patterns.

It’s a gorgeous day, the sun is high in the sky, and there isn’t a cloud in sight. The sea breeze helps to keep things cool, and Claude can’t stress enough how nice it is to be out of his office after what feels like ages.

“Lorenz is going to kill you for this, you know,” says Hilda as she walks beside him. “He’s always complaining about you shirking your work on him. You know how he gets about these things.”

“He’ll get over it,” Claude shrugs. “Besides, I have a legitimate reason for skipping out, today. And you know Judith is always happy to help if I give a legitimate reason.”

“And what might that be?” says Hilda . “You still haven’t told me who you’re waiting for, Claude.”

Claude raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know that I’m waiting for someone?” he says. “I could just simply wish to take a nice walk. The weather is nice today, you know.”

“I’m not stupid, Claude,” says Hilda. “We wouldn’t be walking all the way to the gates if you weren’t waiting for something or someone. So tell me who or what it is, we are going to see, please. My guess is it’s a _someone,_ isn’t it?”

“Not telling,” says Claude, with a grin. “It’d ruin the surprise.”

“C’mon, Claude,” groans Hilda. “You’re no fun. Just tell me.”

“No,” replies Claude, and Hilda lightly smacks him on the arm. 

“Jackass,” she says. 

“You love me anyways,” says Claude. “Besides, you didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to.”

Hilda scoffs. “And get stuck doing work all day with Lorenz? No thank you.”

Claude laughs. “Fair enough.”

“Besides,” she says, “the last time I let you leave alone you came home and tried to bribe me with a wyvern egg.”

“And did it work?”

“Yes, but,” Hilda pouts, “that’s besides the point, here, Claude.”

“Is it really?” says Claude. “I certainly don’t think so.”

Claude reaches up his arm to block some of the sun from his eyes, and looks out of the gate to see some dark spots over the horizon.

Hilda does the same, and her eyes widen slightly as the dark spots grow larger and larger. She’s slowly able to make out several figures on horseback, one of which she recognizes very quickly.

She turns to Claude.

“You bastard,” she says. “You knew Lysithea was coming to town and didn’t tell me?”

Claude grins. “Surprise.”

* * *

“You didn’t say Hilda would be here,” says Lysithea, as she gets off her horse and hands the reins to one of her subordinates.

Hilda raises a hand and waves her fingers. “He didn’t want to tell me where he was going, so I had to make sure he didn’t go get himself into trouble.”

“Hilda,” says Claude, mock-gasping, “you wouldn’t seriously think I’d run off and get myself into trouble, would you?”

Lysithea snorts.

“You did it all the time in the academy,” she says. “I don’t think anyone’s forgotten when you stink-bombed the other two classes.”

Claude raises an eyebrow, moving to walk beside Lysithea. “And who said that was me? It’s not very nice to throw accusations like that, Lysithea. Especially at your employer. You ought to be more careful around your customers, no?”

“I could easily get right back on my horse and leave Claude,” she says. “I’m not doing this because I need the money.”

“Ugh, can you two stop talking business for five minutes?” says Hilda, who had been walking behind. “I’d like to catch up a little bit.”

Hilda moves to walk on the other side of Lysithea before she glances at her and frowns.

“You’re taller than me now,” she groans. “This is so unfair.”

Claude laughs. “Maybe you should eat your vegetables, Hilda. You won’t get taller if you don’t.”

“I know for a fact Lysithea has never touched a vegetable in her life, and _she_ got taller, so that’s horseshit, Claude.”

Claude and Hilda turn to look at Lysithea, and she shrugs.

“You’re not wrong,” says Lysithea, “Vegetables are disgusting.”

Hilda must notice something as she looks Lysithea over, because she starts to look at Lysithea with that grin that Lysithea knows means she sees something she wants.

“Lysithea, by the way,” says Hilda, “Where’d you get the new outfit? I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s cute.”

“It’s practical, not cute,” says Lysithea. (Because really, she isn’t the type of person to care whether or not her clothes are cute or not.) “And I got it through a friend of a friend. Custom made. Her designs are… unconventional, one could say.”

Lysithea has to admit that being in contact with someone who knew exactly what she meant when she said she wanted something similar in fit to joggers was rather convenient. The ability to have a wardrobe that is not only comfortable, but also practical, is a blessing. (Especially when in many areas, corsets are still the height of fashion.)

They start to pass through the market district as they continue, and Hilda eventually splits off when she sees a cute accessory at a nearby stand.

The rest of the walk through the city is relatively quiet aside from the hustle and bustle of the city.

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” says Lysithea, glancing over the desk at Claude. “You want me to go meet this person in the middle of the woods? Are you crazy?”

Claude sighs. “I know my request is… a little unconventional.”

Lysithea crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. “A little? Claude, you just asked me if I’d be willing to meet a stranger in the middle of the woods at midnight. I’m pretty sure that’s what every parent tells their children _not_ to do. Stranger danger, Claude.”

“I promise you, they aren’t a stranger. Just trust me, okay? I can’t tell you exactly _who_ you’ll be meeting, as truth be told, I’m not sure myself, but it’s someone from a small pool of individuals I would trust with my life,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything I wouldn’t do myself. I just _can’t_ right now. Hell, I was barely able to sneak away from the office long enough to meet you here at the gates. As soon as you leave my office, Lorenz and Judith are going to be hounding me to get back to work.” 

He sighs. 

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he says, turning to look at her. “But please, just trust me.” 

“That’s…” Lysithea starts, before she pauses, fumbling over her words. “I’ll try.”

Claude smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

“You owe me bigtime for this, though,” she says.

“What do you mean? I’m already paying you,” says Claude. 

“That’s not good enough. I want more of those date candies from Morfis as well. I tried to get my hands on them myself, but had no success.”

Claude laughs. 

“I think I can make that happen,” he says. 

* * *

As she rides to the meeting point, it’s very obvious that Tiny is just as happy as she is to be up so late at night. He snorts and throws his head around more than usual, and Lysithea honestly can’t blame him. She’s tired too. 

Claude had better come through on those date candies or Lysithea can guarantee she will never be doing any more favors on his behalf. It still frustrates the hell out of her that she can’t figure out where he got them. She tried every connection she has, hell, she even contacted Ignatz, and no luck. It’s easier for her to get her hands on rare and forbidden tomes than it is candy, it seems. 

She had never been a fan of the dark. Not _this_ dark, at least. The light from the stars just barely peeks through the leaves, and here, there are no streetlights, no flashlights. The closest thing she has to a flashlight is the magical lamp that dangles out of one of her hands, the flame flickering to the rhythm of Tiny’s large, sure hoofbeats. 

When Lysithea reaches the clearing indicated, the light of the stars and the moon pours in from above, no longer hindered by the canopy of the forest. She cuts off the flow of magic to her lamp. She doesn’t need it right now. 

She clips it to the back of Tiny’s saddle and lies back, staring up at the stars. She lets herself doze a little until she hears leaves and sticks crunch as someone approaches.

Lysithea quickly sits up, and lets a small flame float in one of her hands, her other charging with the familiar thrum of dark energy. She knows it’s far more likely that the person approaching is her contact than a hostile, but it’s far better to be ready for anything than to be caught unaware. 

A man makes his way into the clearing. He is large, muscular, and hairy. He has one scar across the left side of his cheek, just barely edging across his nose, and another just above his eyebrow near his hairline. A well-polished longbow rests upon his back.

He stops his horse at the sight of her and laughs.

Lysithea frowns. 

“What’s so funny?” she says. 

“Claude didn’t tell me he was sending a _kid_ to meet me,” he laughs.

“Well he didn’t tell me _I’d_ be meeting a crusty old man, either,” she spits back, before she can stop herself. She lets the dark energy in her hands fizzle out. This is clearly her contact. “He doesn’t tell a lot of things, it seems, because I’m _not_ a kid.”

The man pauses, briefly, as if taken aback.

 _Shit._

He breaks out laughing even harder than before, and Lysithea doesn’t know how to react. 

“At first, I wasn’t sure if I was in the right place,” he says, between chuckles, “but, damn, girl, you’ve got spunk. I like that.”

He pulls up next to her, and offers out one large, calloused hand.

“The name’s Na-” he pauses, briefly. “Nardel.”

“Lysithea,” she replies.

She takes his hand, and she swears she almost falls off of Tiny with the force of his handshake. 

She suspects that when Claude hired her to protect whoever got sent to meet her, he likely meant to protect them from themselves, not from bandits. She’s sure this guy could handle just about any bandit just fine, but you never know. It never hurts to be safe, after all.

* * *

_Hey Lysithea,_

_As promised, I’m sending along more of those date candies. (And no, I can’t tell you my source. A magician never reveals his secrets—even to a friend.)_

_Having Nardel around has been a huge help. It’s not easy to get an extra pair of trusted hands around, but his help is truly invaluable. I can’t thank you enough for that, by the way. If you ever need anything, let me know, and I’ll see what I can do. Other than my candy source, that is. That’s going with me to the grave, I’m afraid._

Her reading is interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she says, setting the letter down on a pile of paperwork.

The door to Lysithea’s office opens, and Jillian walks through the door. Jillian joined about a year ago, and Delilah almost immediately shoved her under Lysithea’s care, saying “congrats, you’ve been promoted.” It took Lysithea a little while to adjust to a leadership position, but Jillian proved to be extremely capable, hardworking, and a great dark mage.

The ability to delegate work has helped to speed things along tremendously. In fact, now that Jillian is back from her mission, Lysithea can get back to researching at full speed.

“Lysithea,” says Jillian. “I’m here to report about the last mission.”

“Great.”

Lysithea waves at Jillian to take a seat, opening a cabinet in her desk to look for the folder which contained the mission details. Proper recordkeeping, —as much of a pain as it is—is required by Chad and Virgil.

She slides the folder across the desk to Jillian. By now, they know the routine. Jillian fills a form out, Lysithea signs it, and it gets shoved into the cabinets.

Jillian grabs the folder, but doesn’t leave immediately. 

“Um…” she says. “I know you normally don’t have me do verbal reports anymore, but… well… we found something unusual on our way back.”

“Unusual? How so?” asks Lysithea.

“We passed through Eastcreek on the way back, and recently, there’s rumours of a beast in the woods. Apparently something’s tearing through bandits and poachers in the area to shreds.”

“Do you think it’s a demonic beast?” asks Lysithea. “I’m surprised Elliot didn’t send word. We could have sent someone to take care of it.”

“Um...That’s the thing,” she says, shaking her head. “I asked Elliot about it, and he said that whatever was doing this moved on. It was there one day, gone the next.” Jillian pauses, briefly. “And he said it likely wasn’t a demonic beast, either. Demonic beasts usually take livestock with them, don’t stick to the woods.”

Jillian reaches into her pocket, fumbling briefly around until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Elliot says it’s probably not a _what_ — but a _who_ that was in that woods.” Jillian places a small metal ring on Lysithea’s desk. “Elliot gave me this, said he found it near the bodies.”

Lysithea picks it up, turning it over in her hands. There’s a small, flat part on the top of it, and emblazoned right there on it is the crest of Blaiddyd.

She knows what this ring is—it’s a signet ring. Claude has a very similar one he seals all his letters with. They’re closely guarded, and each family member’s is slightly different.

Only one person had a ring like this, and he’s dead. So then, how did it end up near the body of a bandit in the woods?

When Jillian leaves, she finishes reading over Claude’s letter, grabs a fresh sheet of paper, and begins to pen a response.

* * *

_Claude,_

_A subordinate of mine recently returned with something interesting. Dimitri’s signet ring was found near the body of a bandit in the woods by Eastcreek._

_I know it’s unlikely, but there’s a chance he may be alive. Either that, or some graverobbers were in the area. I’m not sure which, but we can’t eliminate either as a possibility._

_If he is alive, he’s definitely not the same Dimitri we knew before. According to my contact in the area, the bodies were torn to shreds, as if an angry beast had attacked. But no livestock were touched— which, for a beast attack, would be highly unlikely._

_Whatever or whoever was in that stretch of woods has long since moved on, but we can’t completely rule out the possibility that Dimitri might be still alive._

_Do with that information what you will._

_Lysithea._


	9. Chapter 9

When Lysithea unexpectedly coughs up blood on one of her favorite tomes, her first thought is “ _shit, I don’t think I can replace this._ ” Her second thought is just plain “ _shit._ ”

It takes a little while for the burning in her lungs to die down, and she is extra careful _not_ to cough all over her study materials this time. 

Lysithea stuffs a now bloodstained handkerchief in her pocket, packs up her notes into neat piles, and places said piles into their proper folders and cabinets. Afterwards, she makes a beeline to Virgil’s office.

He’s busy chatting with one of the merchants that occasionally stops by when she arrives. She waits outside for Virgil to finish talking with— _what was his name, Seth or something?_

It’s on the tip of her tongue, but she can’t quite remember what it is. Sam, maybe? Sal? It was for sure something with an ‘S’, she remembers that much, at the very least.

She waits outside for what feels like hours.

Steven— _right, that’s what his name was_ —gives her a polite nod on his way out, which Lysithea returns. 

Lysithea knocks on Virgil’s door more out of habit than anything. It’s open, and she is well aware he knows she’s there. 

“Are you busy?” she asks.

“I’m always busy,” replies Virgil, as he files away his notes. “But for you, I can make time.”

He pulls out a fresh sheet of paper, as always, and readies himself for a fresh bout of notetaking. Why, exactly, he takes notes on seemingly every conversation, she will never understand, but everyone has their quirks.

“It’s back,” she says. “The coughing.”

Virgil sighs. 

“You said you thought it was going to stop,” she says. Truth be told, she’s still in denial a bit. She doesn’t want to admit that it happened, that it will continue to happen, that it wasn’t the solution they had hoped it would be. “Or—well, to go into stasis, for a while, at least.”

“I thought it would,” says Virgil. “And it did, for a while. But nothing good lasts forever, it seems. We were aware this was a possibility. Crests—yours especially—are rather resistant to being told they are not needed. It’s not a permanent solution. You know this.”

“I do,” she agrees. “But ideally I would have liked it to last a little bit longer. Repeating the process would be… tiresome, to say the least.”

Tiresome is an understatement. It was an extremely painful procedure, but the relief it provided for a while was honestly worth it, in her opinion. She’s had far worse. But other than that, and the significant time and energy investment, the trade off really wasn’t too bad. She obviously couldn’t _use_ her crests in that state, but she didn’t really care all that much about that.

“I agree,” says Virgil, as he writes down some more notes. “I’ll leave it up to you whether you’d like to try again. I’d have to check a few things, but we’d likely be able to reapply tomorrow, if that’s what you wish.”

“How long do I have left without it?” she asks. If she has enough time left, she might be able to just suck it up and find a permanent solution before things get much worse. She can deal with the occasional coughing fit.

Virgil stands up, and gestures towards her.

“May I?” he asks.

She nods, and Virgil walks behind her and places a glowing hand at her back.

He hums, and moves his hands around a bit, numbing as he goes. 

After what feels like forever, he pulls his hands back with a pensive expression.

“Well?” says Lysithea, impatient. 

“Assuming the rate of decay stays the same,” he says. “If we continue reapplication regularly, I’d estimate you could get an extra year or two at most above what you would already have. Likely two, actually, if we are extremely vigilant about it.”

“And if we aren’t? How much _would_ I already have?” she asks, even though truthfully, she’s not sure she wants to know the answer.

“I’d say you’d probably have about three years, given the state of your lungs. Once you reach a certain level of damage, organ failure would be a high possibility, even with regular healing sessions.”

Three years left without, and five with if she continues with their current solution. Lysithea knew she probably didn’t have that long left, given her original deadline, but some tiny part of her wanted to just continue on and pray that everyone was wrong.

(They weren’t. The clock has been slowed, not stopped.)

“Let’s do it, then,” she says. “If we’re stuck going back to square one, we’re going to need all the time we can get. What do you say, think we can figure this out in five years?”

“I think we can possibly manage that, yes. Shall we get to work?”

Five years. So much time, yet so little. 

It’s back to the drawing board once again. 

Tick tock.

* * *

_Hello, Lysithea._

_This is Lorenz. Claude and Hilda were so kind as to give me your contact information._

_I would first like to express my deepest apologies for my crass behavior in the past. At the time, I had believed I was doing the right thing, and did not realize the things I was saying would in any way cause any offense._

_You and I are nobles, and with that title comes a responsibility to our people that I am starting to realize my father has been sorely neglecting. What good does it do my country to have a wife of good breeding, when many of my people cannot read, do not have access to clean water, or do not have enough food to make a proper meal three times a day? These are issues that simply must be addressed before my marriage status, despite what my father thinks._

_With how much my father has always lectured me on the fact that as Nobles, we are above the rest of our people, I suppose I started to take it to heart— even if he never did._

_When I look back on it now, it is painfully obvious to me that it isn’t true—we all eat the same food, drink the same water, breathe the same air—but hindsight is… as they say, twenty-twenty. I cannot change the person I was in the past, but I can, however, change how I act in both the present as well as the future. And the first step to that is to make amends for my past wrongdoings._

_I know your opinion of me is likely not favorable, but I hope, at the very least, that you are willing to overlook my past transgressions enough to give me a second chance._

_But that is enough of my rambling. If I am to speak truthfully, I did not write to you solely to apologize._

_I’m sure you’ve heard by now, but it was announced that several prominent Imperial noblemen have been executed, including Duke Gerth, Count Varley, and Duke Aegir. They were charged with treason, however it seems a bit too sudden for me to fully believe it._

_There has been no sign of Archbishop Rhea, but she is likely assumed dead as well. If anyone were to be considered a criminal by the Adrestian Empire’s standards, it would be her._

_The roundtable is in an uproar, and unfortunately for Claude and I, this means our already sizable workloads have only grown larger. My father has been especially unruly as of late._

_Truthfully, I am worried about Claude. He has been working himself sick. Despite how much Hilda and I lecture him, he does not seem to take us seriously. I even had the chefs make some of that… “casserole”, as you called it, and he barely touched it before going back to work._

_I do not fault him for doing what he must, but he simply must learn that even he has limits._

_Hilda and I are doing our best to help, and Nardel’s assistance has been truly invaluable. (I do not know where Claude found such a loyal retainer, but perhaps I should look into seeing if he has any siblings that would be amenable to becoming knights.)_

_I likely will have to return to Gloucester territory soon, but Lady von Daphnel should be returning to Derdriu within a fortnight, so hopefully she shall, as they say, “knock some sense” into him. We shall see._

_Best regards and with foremost apologies,_

_Lorenz Hellman Gloucester._

* * *

To be honest, Lysithea had never seen the appeal of new year’s parties. She’s never been one for alcohol either—she has more than enough health issues to risk adding liver problems into the equation. Not to mention the fact that it tastes like crap. (Why people would want to ruin a perfectly good sugary drink with alcohol is beyond her.)

It’s rowdy, and Lysithea has to weave her way through people who have probably had a bit too much to drink to make her way to her usual table.

There’s a guy in the back corner with a bastardized guitar, and— _dear god, is that Wonderwall?_

She takes a seat, and one of the barkeeps quickly brings over her usual. A heaping slice of fruit pie, extra whipped cream. Just the way she likes it. 

Truth be told, she was debating skipping her usual trip out for pie tonight. She doesn’t like the crowds. Despite this, though, she feels somewhat drawn to it.

Even though there are no televisions with sports games lining the walls, the overall energy of the tavern feels a lot like a bar from before. With everyone eagerly watching the guitar, chatting, and eating various appetizers and finger foods, she can almost imagine her old father sitting next to her and complaining about the results of the latest game over chicken wings and cheap pizza.

Another year, another party. There is no grand countdown, no giant ball, no kisses as the clock strikes twelve, no confetti, no streamers. Another year past, another year gone, another year off the clock.

Each bite of pie is more stale than the last, soured by bitter thoughts and empty words.

Delilah finds her relatively quickly.

“You just gonna sit here and sulk?” she asks, as she takes a seat at the table, setting down her own plate of pie.

“I’m not sulking,” says Lysithea. “I just don’t like parties.”

“Then why come?” she asks, and before Lysithea can respond, she continues. “And before you say that it’s for the pie, both you and I know full well you could get it to-go if you wanted to.”

Delilah’s right. If Lysithea really didn’t want to be here, she could have left.

“Sentimentality, I suppose,” says Lysithea. “My dad used to take me to sports bars for wings on game nights. The crowds remind me of it.”

“Makes sense,” replies Delilah. “It’s a rough time for all of us. It’s hard to accept that we can’t ever go back, and every year that goes by really hammers in the fact this is _real_. It’s no surprise we tend to get a bit bummed out. Or blackout drunk.”

She pauses to take a bite of her pie.

“Not everyone had it great before, but every single one of us has something that we miss. And the current state of things right now doesn’t tend to help lift the mood much.”

At that, Lysithea snorts. “You’ve got that right,” she says.

Delilah lets out a small hum in agreement, before there’s a brief pause as both of them simply sit and eat their pie. Bite by bite, Lysithea eventually empties her plate.

“Life is a bitch,” she grumbles, “and I want more pie.”

“Cheers, I’ll drink to that, sweetheart.”

Lysithea frowns. “Please don’t. I don’t want a repeat performance of last year’s poker incident.”

Delilah laughs.

“No promises.”

* * *

The Adrestian Empire takes over the Great Bridge of Myrddin in late Lone Moon. Realistically, Lysithea knew that the temporary stalemate would end at some point. Logistically, given the size of the Imperial Army, it was inevitable they’d take the border sooner rather than later. Even still, it doesn’t make the news any easier. 

Lysithea knows her geography well, and she’s not stupid. Ordelia territory isn’t that far from the bridge, and it’s only a matter of time until it, too, falls. They don’t have the resources to fend off _any_ army, let alone one the size of the Adrestian Empire’s.

While she may not be on the best of terms with her parents, Lysithea doesn’t want them _dead_. She remembers what happened the last time House Ordelia rested in the Empire’s hands. Everyone does. The horrors of that time are not something one easily forgets.

She opens the letter she receives from Claude at the beginning of Great Tree Moon with shaking hands. 

The letter is far shorter than usual, lacking its usual jokes. For once, Claude cuts right to the point. 

_Hey Lysithea,_

_I’ve got some bad news. I’m sure you’ve heard what happened with the bridge, but… it didn’t stop there, it seems._

_The Empire has taken Ordelia territory, and as I write this, your parents are missing. I don’t know if they made it out, but I’m keeping my ears open and eyes peeled._

_I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear._

_I’m sorry._

_Claude._

Lysithea is numb. She knew this was coming, expected it, prepared for it, but she still isn’t able to process the reality of it actually happening.

She reads it over once more, and again, and again, but the words on it remain the same.

She’s torn. On one hand, Mother and Father are her parents, on the other, they aren’t. Mother and Father are not nearly the same as Mom and Dad, and she was never as close with the former as she was the latter.

Lysithea does appreciate, though, the fact that they cared enough to look out for her. They cared enough to hire her tutors, they cared enough to pay a fortune to send her to Garreg Mach (despite the fact they weren’t thrilled with the idea), and they cared enough to do so much more even though she did not return the effort nearly the same way.

In a way, she can’t help but feel a bit guilty for it. Had she not run off, would they have made it out? 

It was not her parents’ fault that their only remaining child ran off and didn’t come home, not their fault she left her legacy and territory behind. No—the fault for that lies with nobody but Lysithea, and the consequences of her decision have come back to bite her parents instead of her.

The letter sits on her desk, and Lysithea occasionally glances up at it as she works, almost as if to confirm that— _yes, it’s still there._

She really wishes it wasn’t.

* * *

The rest of the day is a blur.

Before she knows it, it’s evening, and she can’t for the life of her remember a word of what she read or wrote all day. 

Lysithea makes her way to the training grounds for the first time in a while, and she almost feels a bit bad for the training dummies she proceeds to destroy.

Lysithea hears a low whistle after she fires off a Dark Spikes spell on her third training dummy of the day.

“Wow. What’d that training dummy do to deserve that?” asks Delilah, as she takes a seat on a nearby supply crate. 

“Deserve _what_?” says Lysithea, frowning. “Delilah, it’s a training dummy. It’s meant to get beat up.”

Delilah gives her an unimpressed look. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

Delilah crosses her arms.

“You didn’t show up for dinner.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” says Lysithea, as she grabs another training dummy and starts to set it up.

“Bullshit. You’re always hungry on casserole night.”

Lysithea glares. “I wasn’t this time.”

Delilah looks right back, unphased, unmoving. 

“You only get like this when you’re pissed,” she says. “Something happened. Spill.”

Lysithea turns back around and lets herself fall back into position, letting dark energy charge in her hands.

“House Ordelia is now under imperial control,” she says. She shoots a Miasma spell at the new training dummy. “And my...” she hesitates, briefly, fumbling for the right words. “My… _parents_ are missing.”

“Ah,” says Delilah. 

“It’s not like we were close or anything,” says Lysithea, “but I didn’t want them _dead_.”

“Of course not,” says Delilah. 

“I just… _god_ … I don’t even know how to feel about things anymore. To top things all off, I’ve been running in circles for my research, and neither me nor Virgil has made an inch of progress in months.”

Lysithea takes a seat next to Delilah and puts her head in her hands. 

“Everything is just such a mess.”

Delilah places a hand on Lysithea’s shoulder.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, sweetheart, she says. “Life sucks.”

“Thanks,” says Lysithea, lifting up her head and letting out a bitter snort. “I’m aware of that.”

“I wasn’t finished,” says Delilah. “Life sucks for everyone. And it doesn’t stop sucking unless you force it to, because let’s be real here, the world has a sick sense of humor. It’ll kick you down over and over again, but if you don’t ever get back up, you’re stuck with a mouth full of dirt forever. You gotta keep on going in order for anything to change.”

“That’s easier said than done,” huffs Lysithea. 

“I’m aware,” says Delilah. “Trust me, I can’t even count the number of times I’ve wanted to do nothing more than crawl in a hole and never leave it. I quickly learned that nothing would change if I did.”

“Easy for you to say,” Lysithea snaps, before she can stop herself. “you’re not _dying._ ”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Delilah responds.

“I was, once, and I regret not making the most of the time I had. I don’t want you to make the same mistake,” Delilah says with a sigh. “You got dealt a shit hand, honey. I get it. It sucks, but it’s far better to try to play the cards you’ve got than to fold before the game’s even started. It might not work, but damn, at least you’d have tried.”

Delilah drags a hand across her face. “Listen, I know I’m not great at this whole motivational speech shit, and that this sounds rich given the circumstances, but if there’s one thing I regret doing the last time around it was giving up. You may not have much time left sweetheart, but there’s a hell of a lot of things you can do with it. What exactly it is you want to do with it, though— that’s up to you.”

“What if I don’t know what I want to do with it, Delilah? What am I supposed to do then?” asks Lysithea, even though she realistically knows that Delilah can’t answer the question— it’s one only she can answer herself.

Delilah gives her a pat on the back. 

“You’re a smart girl, Lysithea,” she says. “I know you’ll figure it out eventually.”

Lysithea isn’t so sure about that, but she doesn’t have the energy to protest. That’s tomorrow’s problem— for today, she is tired.

* * *

Lysithea finds her answer is easier to come to than she thought it would be for the sole reason that she really only has two options: she either stays, or she goes.

No matter what she does, she knows the war will reach her eventually. It’s simply a matter of whether she jumps in herself, or is dragged in kicking and screaming.

She hasn’t gotten a request from Claude for assistance. Whether it be out of courtesy due to the fact he knows she wanted no part in this, or out of realization that they’re well and truly screwed, she really doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know a lot right now, but Lysithea does know some things.

One: she has about five years to live, and given the state of her research, it’s unlikely she’ll get more than that. She’s not foolish enough to believe she’ll outrun her inevitable doomsday twice.

Two: the war will come either way no matter what she does. Funkytown is sequestered away near the mountains, yes, but the Adrestian Army is massive, and nothing if not thorough. It’s only a matter of time before a scout or two gets within range.

And three: the Alliance is going to lose. It’s inevitable at this point. Faerghus’s rebellion is only kept alive by the bitter cold of the winters their enemies are unprepared for, and the Empire has stormed past the Great Bridge of Myrddin, the Alliance’s one major choke point. 

Knowing all this, Lysithea can’t put her finger on the reason why she starts packing for Derdriu. It’s an _incredibly_ illogical move.

Is it sentiment, maybe, that drags her towards those marble columns and stone gates? Nostalgia? 

No—if Lysithea were to be perfectly honest, the biggest thing pushing her towards Derdriu is probably spite.

It was the Adrestian Empire, after all, who killed her siblings, it was the Adrestian Empire who tore her to pieces then put her back together again, it was the Adrestian Empire who started this whole stupid war.

Because really, this war _is_ stupid, and Lysithea jumping right into the fray is even more so.

War does not solve anything— not _really._ Nobody wins, and everybody loses when fields are burned to the ground, supply chains are interrupted, and men march to their deaths without the slightest _real_ inkling of why they are fighting.

War does not solve anything. Sitting on your ass and waiting for change doesn’t either, though, and Lysithea doesn’t have the time to wait anymore.

Delilah gives her a knowing look when she stops by Virgil’s office to say her goodbyes.

She likely will be back, yes, but it’d still be impolite to leave without saying anything at all. (Especially considering she has several people who depend on her for orders; it’d be downright irresponsible to pack up and leave without sorting out who they should report to while she’s gone.)

“So you’ve made your decision then, I see,” says Delilah, as Lysithea starts to load up Tiny’s saddlebags.

“Yes,” replies Lysithea. “I have.” She closes the bag and clasps it shut. “Whether I’ll end up regretting it later, though, we’ll see.”

“You’re at least staying for dinner, aren’t you?” asks Delilah. “Sarah would have my head if I let you go without a good meal.”

“I wouldn’t miss it even if the world was ending,” replies Lysithea. “It’s casserole night.”

Delilah laughs. “I figured you’d say that.”

* * *

Derdriu is buzzing with activity when she arrives, and the gates are still wide open for now, merchants going to and fro. Even with the war, there are still goods to be bought and sold, and it’s business as usual aside from tighter than normal security.

Lysithea is let in without so much as a question as soon as she flashes the small metal brooch Claude had given her what feels like so long ago.

He’s not here to greet her at the gates this time. She isn’t surprised by this considering she didn’t exactly send word ahead of time she’d be coming. 

The guardsmen at the Riegan Estate give her a bit more scrutiny than the ones at the gate did, but they eventually let her through after confirming the authenticity of her brooch: her golden ticket—or silver ticket, rather— to almost anywhere in Derdriu she so pleases.

When she knocks at Claude’s office door, she’s met with an annoyed response.

“What is it this time?” snaps Claude, “Didn’t I say I was working?”

She hears a sigh.

“First you nag me to get to work, and then when I _do_ work, you still nag me, Judith! Whatever it is, can’t it wait?”

“Not Judith,” responds Lysithea. “But I can wait though, if you’d like.”

She hears the lock click open before the door opens and she is face to face with the man himself.

“You look like shit,” Lysithea says, before she can stop herself. She’s not wrong— he _does_ look like shit. There are bags under his eyes and the small beard he’s been sporting in recent years is a far more unkempt than usual.

If he’s offended by her comment, he doesn’t show it. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, Lysithea would almost say he didn’t hear her.

“Lysithea, what are you doing here?” he says, face forming into an expression she can’t quite get a read on— something between pensive and calculating. 

It’s a good question. The answer to it is something she’s still not entirely sure of herself.

“You know full well why I’m here,” she says, instead. It’s both an answer and not.

Claude takes a seat at his desk and moves to let her take one across from him.

Claude sighs and runs a hand across his face.

“What happened to wanting to stay out of it, huh?”

“That’s no longer an option,” she says, and they both know it’s true. “The war will drag us all into it whether we like it or not at this point.”

“Fair,” says Claude. “That still doesn't answer my question, though. Why are you here, Lysithea?”

“Because I felt like it,” she answers, and Claude frowns. “Are you going to keep interrogating me, or are you going to give me something to do?”

“It’s not interrogating you to ask why you showed up to Derdriu shortly before we’re going to be attacked, Lysithea,” he says, giving her an unimpressed look as she shrugs. “Even if you would have gotten dragged in eventually, throwing yourself into the front lines is just stupid.”

“You can’t call me stupid while you look half dead from overworking yourself,” counters Lysithea. 

“Yes I can,” says Claude. “Just because I make stupid choices doesn’t mean you should too.”

“Well it’s my life, and my stupid choices to make. I’m already here regardless. At this point, I can’t change my decision even if I wanted to,” says Lysithea. “The Adrestian Army is already on it’s way here, and if I were to try to ride back, I’d likely run right into them.”

“I know,” says Claude. “As much as I wish you would have _asked_ me before coming, it’s too late now. I’ll adjust the plans and find some stuff for you to help out with if you want to. If not… I could still probably pull some strings and get you out of here before the Empire gets here. You’d have to leave your horse, but… I’m tight on options at the moment.”

“Get out?” Lysithea snorts. “For what, just to end up with the Army coming to my door instead of yours? I’m not ditching my horse, Claude.”

“Besides, you damn well know that’d be too much of a pain to be worth it anyways.” Lysithea crosses her arms. “The Empire’s going to reach everywhere. With their sheer size alone, it’s inevitable they’ll travel down every road in Fodlan eventually.”

“I want to help,” she says. “I didn’t come all the way here just to run on home, Claude. I’m well aware of the risks, and I’m tired of freeloading off your hospitality. Consider this my way of repaying some of the favors you’ve done for me.”

“I don’t need you to repay anything,” he says, “you’ve already done more than enough. We’re even,” he says, before he shrugs. “But if you insist, I can’t stop you.”

He pauses for a moment to think.

“If you’re staying, you might as well check in with Hilda. She’ll be thrilled to see you, she’s been complaining about not having enough girl time lately. She recently got some new nail polish she’s been _dying_ to test out.”

At that, Lysithea pales slightly, and Claude laughs.

* * *

“Y’know, when Claude said you were here I thought he was joking at first,” says Hilda. “I thought he was trying to get me off his back. He claims I nag him too much.”

“You were nagging him?” asks Lysithea.

“Yeah,” says Hilda, with a shrug, as she rifles through a cabinet until she finds what she’s looking for: a small chest full of nail polish. 

At Lysithea’s raised eyebrow, she explains.

“Okay, yeah, I know it’s a little bit hypocritical coming from me, but-”

“A little bit?” Lysithea snorts. “Understatement of the year.”

Hilda frowns. “If you’d let me _finish_ , I was going to say that I’ve stepped up my game since our school days. When nobody else can do things right around here, _somebody_ had to take responsibility, yknow? Now what color do you want?”

Lysithea mock gasps and pinches herself. “I must be dreaming,” she says, “Hilda Valentine Goneril? Willingly doing work and taking responsibility? This can’t be real.”

She pauses for a moment to think about what color she wants, but honestly isn’t sure what kind she’d want, let alone the shade.

“Surprise me on the color,” she settles with. “You’re the expert, after all.”

Hilda rifles through her obnoxiously pink collection of nail polishes before settling, surprisingly enough, on a purple bottle.

She sits down at the table across from Lysithea, and sets the bottle down.

“Would it be more believable if I asked to copy your homework?” Hilda asks.

Lysithea pauses to think. “Yes,” she says. “Definitely. You’re already holding me hostage to paint my nails, this would be your ideal time to corner me.”

“I’m not holding you hostage,” says Hilda, as she motions for Lysithea to lay her hand out on the table. “You could have easily said no.”

“Just like Claude and Lorenz “ _could have easily said no_ ” ?” asks Lysithea, as she sets her hand on the table. “Yes, judging by their past success, I’m _sure_ that would have worked.”

They laugh, and slowly settle into easy conversation as Hilda starts the slow process of painting Lysithea’s nails. For a moment, they are no longer carrying the world on their shoulders—for a moment, they’re just two girls painting each other’s nails. (Or rather, Hilda is painting both of theirs. Lysithea doesn’t have the slightest idea how to do it herself.) 

For just a little while, it’s easy to forget that the Adrestian Army isn’t that far off.

A little while is not nearly enough. With every second that passes, the opposing army marches onwards, step by step.

Tick tock.


	10. Chapter 10

The gates are shut tight by the time the first scouts arrive. The markets are empty of their usual crowds, and the whole city is eerily quiet but for the hustle and bustle of soldiers preparing for the inevitable onslaught to come.

Normally Lysithea likes quiet, but not like this. This sort of quiet is unnatural, eerie even. Walking through the market without merchants yelling left and right, without the familiar creaking of cart wheels on the cobblestones— it’s just not _right._

Lysithea has no time for her thoughts to linger on it, however. She has work to do.

The Leicester Alliance isn’t known for it’s magical prowess quite the same way as the Kingdom or the Empire is, but that doesn’t mean that their army is devoid of mages. The few they have (her included) work to set up fire orbs in strategic locations.

Claude may not have been the world’s best tactician back during their school days, but in the time since, he’s gotten quite good at reading the battlefield. He had to, Lysithea supposes, considering he was expected to lead the Alliances’ military efforts after the death of his grandfather.

Lysithea is halfway through setting up her fifth fire orb of the day when she hears the sounds of the horns.

She glances up, and as she feared, several pillars of smoke rise over the horizon.

The Empire. They’re here.

Well— not _here_ here, but they’re close enough they might as well be. 

She hears the flap of wings and there’s a loud thump as Claude lands behind her on a giant, albino wyvern.

“Lysithea,” he says, and Lysithea can’t quite read his expression.

“Claude,” she returns. 

He takes a moment to find his words before he speaks.

“If at any point you think your life is in danger, run, surrender, whatever you so choose,” he says. “Do what you will, but this isn’t worth dying over.”

“ _That’s not your decision to make,_ ” she wants to say, but she bites her tongue. It’s not that she _wants_ to die here, but she’s tired of having her mortality in other people’s hands— be it doctor, friend, or foe. “Didn’t plan on dying anyways, so that’s fine by me,” she says instead. 

Even if she does get out alive here, that choice to live or die will be taken from her eventually. She never had a choice. Not really.

Death comes for everyone, rich or poor, old or young, and with every passing day Lysithea takes another step towards her grave.

There’s no goodbyes, no “see you laters.” There’s a mutual understanding that neither of them can afford to make any promises right now, and they have so many things to do in so little time.

She finishes setting up the orb as she watches Claude fly off, presumably to get into position. 

There’s another blare of horns, and several loud bangs.

Lysithea’s stomach twists, and as she gathers energy in her hands, the storm in her blood rages to life.

* * *

Lysithea has shot down four pegasus knights and two wyvern riders with a fire orb by the time ground forces reach the alley she had been sniping them from.

She takes down two armored knights relatively easily before they even realize she’s there, and doesn’t have any real issues until she feels a surge of dark energy and ducks just in time to dodge a Miasma to the face.

She’s tired. She’s tired, angry, and probably pushing herself way past her limits, and she is going to make whoever just threw that spell at her _regret it._

“It’s rather rude to aim for someone’s face, you know,” she hisses, as she turns around and shoots her own Miasma back in direction of her attacker.

The only response she gets from the dark figure at the other end of the alleyway is another Miasma. 

Fine. Two can play at that game. 

She fires off a Swarm towards her opponent’s head, but they deftly step out of the way.

“It would seem I’m not the only one here with poor manners, then.”

She knows that voice. It’s deeper than what she remembers, but it still has the same nasally, smug undertones that drove her insane back at Garreg Mach.

_Hubert._

Of course it’s Hubert. She almost wants to laugh. 

She knew it was a possibility she’d run into some familiar faces on the battlefield, but it’s somewhat ironic that of all people, it’s _him_ she ends up face to face with. It’s not Caspar, not Linhardt, no, it’s _Hubert_.

It’s almost like some screwed-up repeat of the Battle of Eagle and Lion, the dark mage showdown two: electric boogaloo. Life just seems to love messing with her, it seems.

Lysithea is _far_ too tired for this right now. She’s low on energy, and quite honestly she should have retreated a while ago. If Hubert draws things out for too long, she’s done for. She needs to end this, and quickly.

She fires off a Miasma in one hand, and lets her other gather energy.

There’s another exchange of spells and some bricks go flying from the building behind her as Hubert’s Swarm collides into it.

Lysithea keeps gathering energy. She’s collecting too much, to the point it’s reaching dangerous levels, but she doesn’t care.

Her blood rushes through her veins, and every nerve in her body is screaming. 

She lets go.

Charon _howls_ and there is a glow in front of her eyes as she lets the Dark Spikes spell fly free, and her chest burns.

Boosted by Charon’s rage, it zooms forward faster than any of her other spells, and Lysithea falls to her knees and wheezes as she watches Hubert fly backwards from the impact. It’s sloppier than she would have liked it to be, but it does its job and takes Hubert down rather quickly. She really overdid it, but in her opinion, it was worth it.

_Serves him right. Smug bastard._

Unfortunately, in all the chaos, Lysithea had forgotten one crucial detail: there’s a high possibility that Hubert has backup. And as it turns out, he does.

From above, an arrow whizzes into her shoulder, and she almost wants to laugh at the irony.

It comes out as a cough instead. 

Time slows, the world spins, and the last thing she remembers is the taste of blood on her lips and the sound of boots on stone.

* * *

Lysithea doesn’t know what she’d expected when she woke up. If she were being honest, she’s not sure that she’d expected to wake up at all.

It’s one of the many reasons she finds herself extremely disoriented when she wakes up to soft sheets under her fingertips and a bandaged shoulder.

Her head is pounding and her throat is dry, but her chest is delightfully numb. The room is bright. She doesn’t want to open her eyes, and even with them fully shut, it’s still far too bright for her liking.

Lysithea moves to cover her eyes with her arm, and fully expects a sharp pain in her shoulder when she realizes far too late which arm she is using to do so. It never comes. Her shoulder, like her chest, is numb.

“You’re allergic to curare, apparently,” comes a drawl she remembers very well. “You had a rather nasty rash, and by the time I got to you, your shoulder was swollen like an overfilled waterskin. It was rather repulsive.”

_Linhardt._

Lysithea groans. She _really_ doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

“You’re dehydrated.” 

A glass of water is pressed to her lips, and it takes all her self control not to take a big gulp and spit it in Linhardt’s face. She’s too tired to, unfortunately.

She takes a few gulps before opening her eyes and squinting. It’s still far too bright for her liking, but squinting and shutting her eyes intermittently allows Lysithea to slowly adjust.

Despite her misgivings and conflicting feelings about Linhardt, she’d have to be blind to say the man in front of her didn’t age well. Some of his baby fat has gone from his cheeks, and Linhardt’s hair is long and silky smooth, like something out of a shampoo ad.

“You’re still bossy as ever,” she grumbles. 

“And you’re still stupid as ever,” Linhardt replies. “You were—and are—in _no_ condition to be slinging around overcharged spells.” 

Lysithea frowns, pushing the glass of water away. “And what right do _you_ have to tell me what to do? You made it rather clear you wanted nothing more to do with your little science experiment anymore when you left without a word, Linhardt.”

“Do you really believe that?” Linhardt turns and moves to set the glass of water on the table beside her bed, before sitting down at a nearby chair with a notebook and quill. “We may not have started on the best note, yes, but you are a fool to believe that was on purpose.”

“Am I?” asks Lysithea. “Am I the fool here, for fighting to keep some shred of normalcy? I don’t have time to waste, unlike you.”

She knows she’s being a bit harsh, but she doesn’t care. She’s tired of playing nice.

“Do you seriously believe I went into the Holy Tomb knowing everything would happen? Don’t be daft.” he says, as he scribbles god knows what in that stupid notebook. “I despise fighting, and it wasn’t as if Edelgard and Hubert were very forthcoming on the matter. Truth be told, I don’t think they expected us to follow them.”

“I wouldn’t have,” says Lysithea. 

Linhardt merely gives her a stare. “Good thing it was not your decision to make, then. It was either leave with the Professor and retain access to the imperial libraries, or stay and risk being called a traitor by association and executed. I don’t think there was much of a decision to make.”

They fall into silence as Linhardt’s words sink in. As much as Lysithea hates it, he has a point. How the hell was he supposed to send word when he left unplanned? How was he supposed to send word after when she had given no way to contact her? 

He couldn’t. And she’d had her head too far up her own ass to see it. Lysithea almost wants to slap herself for being so stupid. Everything’s just such a mess.

She sighs. 

“So what now?” she glances over towards Linhardt. “Am I to be your prisoner?”

“Yes and no.” Linhardt frowns. “Truth be told, I hadn’t expected to ever see you again. Neither had anyone else, really.”

“Wow,” she says, sarcastically, “I hadn’t expected to see anyone else either.”

“To put it bluntly,” says Linhardt, ignoring her comment. “Your situation is unusual.”

“No, really?” 

Linhardt gives her an unimpressed look. “Will you allow me to answer your question or will you continue to mock me?”

“No, no,” Lysithea says, “do go on.”

“Technically, you’re a prisoner of war, yes. There was a significant effort to make sure anyone of political importance was subdued alive. You’re the last scion of an Alliance Noble house, and were anything bad to happen to you in our care, it’d reflect rather badly on the Empire. So am I in charge of keeping you alive? Yes. Are you my prisoner? No. I don’t have that sort of authority.”

Linhardt sighs. 

“It doesn’t help that you caught Hubert’s attention with that stunt you pulled on the battlefield. Activating your crest and all.” He shrugs. “You aren’t all that great at keeping secrets, are you?”

Lysithea glares. “I’d like to see you try, if you think it’s so easy. You know as well as I do they're hard to control.”

Linhardt shrugs. “I’m well aware they aren’t easy to control, but you practically put them on full display.”

“Fine.” Lysithea pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “So, what _will_ happen to me, then, Linhardt? Get to the point. I don’t have all day.”

“I don’t know,” he says bluntly.

“Thank you for the _extremely_ helpful answer.”

“You’re welcome,” Linhardt returns. 

“That was sarcasm, asshole,” she hisses.

“I’m aware,” Linhardt replies, and Lysithea wants nothing more than to throw the water glass on the table at his stupid, unfairly pretty face.

* * *

There’s another few hours of awkward conversations and Linhardt mumbling as he scribbles away in his notebook before Lysithea finally gets a bit of sweet, sweet, silence. (Or rather, a noise level low enough to doze. She can deal with Linhardt’s scribbling in the background so long as he shuts his mouth.)

She doesn’t know how long she dozes for before she’s woken up by sound of the door opening. When Lysithea cracks an eye open to see a blur of crimson red, she immediately wants to close it again and go back to sleep. 

Unfortunately, Edelgard isn’t stupid, so Lysithea already knows she won’t just simply turn and leave even if she _was_ asleep. At the very least, this gives Lysithea a few precious moments to compose her thoughts. 

“You have two crests,” says Edelgard, and like when Lysithea first met Linhardt, it is a statement, not a question. Hubert likely had told Edelgard what he saw, so this isn’t a surprise.

Before Lysithea can respond, Linhardt pipes up.

“Were you not aware of that before?” 

“You knew?” Edelgard turns to give Linhardt an unimpressed look. 

“You didn’t?” he says, raising an eyebrow, nonplussed. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Not to everyone.” Edelgard sighs. “Although I will admit that I suspected it. I had no time to confirm it for myself, however.”

“Until now,” says Lysithea. 

Edelgard turns, and Lysithea can’t get a read on her expression. 

“Yes, until now,” she confirms.

Edelgard takes a seat in a chair next to Linhardt’s.

“You and I seem to have a lot in common, Lysithea,” says Edelgard. 

“How so?”

Lysithea raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t see it. Edelgard stands tall as the emperor of Adrestia, a woman with unparalleled strength and axe skills to match. Lysithea is a girl who ran away from her title, whose only strength comes from reading too many books and doing too much spell theory. What could they possibly have in common?

Edelgard holds up her hands, and in each one, a symbol glows.

Lysithea has seen the Crest of Seiros enough times in textbooks to know it quite well, and even if she didn’t, the thing is pretty much slapped on every piece of imperial regalia there is. The symbol in Edelgard’s other hand is one Lysithea has only seen once in person— and that was when she had tagged along for Professor Byleth’s monthly mission. The Crest of Flames.

Edelgard has two crests.

Edelgard has two crests, and one of them is the Crest of Flames.

“Oh,” says Lysithea. She pauses for a moment to gather her thoughts. 

Looking back on things, Lysithea really should have suspected as much from Edelgard’s hair, but for all she knew Edelgard could have been born like that. Considering that she had shared class with people like Lorenz and Hilda, who had hair colors that really shouldn’t have been possible but _were,_ well… white hair didn’t seem that far out of the norm.

But… if it was the Adrestian Empire who had caused Lysithea’s own family’s shitshow… then why does Edelgard have two crests? Why would they do that to a member of their own royal family? It just doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

Lysithea has many questions she wants to ask, but she is in no place at the current moment to go asking most of them.

“What do you want from me?” she settles with, getting straight to the point. “Politics aside, I know that I wouldn’t be alive and talking to you if you didn’t want something from me, _your majesty._ I won’t fight for you.”

(She won’t be doing much more fighting _period_ , even if she wants to, but that’s beside the point.)

Edelgard and Linhardt share a glance, before Edelgard turns back towards Lysithea. 

“Linhardt has been researching ways to remove crests,” says Edelgard. “I suspect you’re already familiar with the subject.”

Linhardt cuts in. “She is. The research was originally started with her in mind rather than you, actually.”

Edelgard turns back towards Lysithea. “I will not ask you to fight for me, but should you wish to continue your own research in the subject, or to assist Linhardt in his, I would be willing to give you access to all the resources you’d need. You would be compensated for your work as well, of course.”

“And if I don’t wish to? What happens to me then?”

“Likely house arrest, among other things,” says Linhardt. “Judging by what’s been done with most other people of political importance.”

_Is that what happened to Claude and Hilda?_

Lysithea pauses for a moment to think things through. At this point, indefinite house arrest would be as good as a death sentence (for her at least), considering everything. And the access to the imperial libraries _is_ tempting. The empire is— _was?—_ the oldest of the countries in Fodlan, and the imperial libraries are about as old as Enbarr is, filled with a thousand years of rare texts and tomes.

The offer is quite tempting, but it all seems a bit too good to be true. From experience, Lysithea knows that when things seem too good to be true, they usually are. But considering the other option is likely far worse, she’ll gladly take the lesser of two evils.

“I’m interested,” she says, eventually. “But I have some conditions.”

Edelgard smiles. “I’m sure that we can come to a suitable agreement.”

* * *

The Enbarr Castle Library is enormous, and it easily dwarfs the rather extensive collection Garreg Mach had offered to its students. Even if Lysithea were to add every single scroll and tome she and Virgil owned to Garreg Mach’s collection, it’d still make up barely even a _fourth_ of what currently lies in front of her.

It’s honestly intimidating, and were Linhardt not there to help guide her through row after row of books, Lysithea wouldn’t even have the _slightest_ idea of where to even start.

There’s several large reading tables scattered around in various nooks and crannies, and they weave their way through stacks of tomes before arriving at one that Linhardt has all but taken over. Both take a minute to get situated, and Lysithea pushes a few messy piles of paper out of the way to make room for her to work.

“I suppose our first order of business would be updates,” says Linhardt. He reaches into his bag and pulls out two notebooks, one familiar, one not. 

“Oh, thank god,” she says. “You have my notes.” 

“I do. I retrieved your notebook from Hubert when you were brought in—not that it does me much good the way it is currently,” Linhardt says, as he passes her notebook over. “You kept it in code.”

“Of course I did,” she says, as she opens it and looks through it. “I always have. You know that.”

She sighs in relief as she finds her notebook’s contents untouched.

“I do,” he says, “but usually I had you there to translate as well as my own copy.”

“Well, you have one of those right now,” she says, as she reaches for a quill. “We can work on the other.”

“Mmm,” he says. “I’m assuming you kept up your research… wherever you were?”

“Yes, I did. What, do you think I was just going to sit on my ass for a few years, Linhardt?” Lysithea raises an eyebrow.

“No, but I also didn’t expect to see you brought in from Derdriu,” he drawls. “At this point, I’ve learned it’s far better not to jump to conclusions.”

“You already have, though,” she points out. “You already assumed I made progress by asking me to update you.”

“Was I wrong?” Linhardt leans back over to dig through his bag again. 

“No,” she admits, “but don’t go saying you’re not jumping to conclusions.”

“I never said I wasn’t.” Linhardt pulls out a fresh notebook. “Just that I learned it was far better not to. There’s a large difference.”

“Whatever you say.” She sighs. “I guess the first thing we need to do is compare our notes, then. It’s likely we have some overlapping information, so we’ll have to determine which— if any of our conclusions differ.”

“I agree,” says Linhardt. 

“Hand me your notes.” Lysithea snatches his notebook from under him before he can protest. “You can’t read mine, so I’ll translate and dictate, you record the information.” She opens his notes and sets them next to hers.

Linhardt frowns, briefly, before he hums in agreement. “I suppose that makes sense.”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Lysithea to start weaving her way through the aisles of the library as if she’s been there her whole life. Working alongside Linhardt is a routine that is disturbingly easy to fall back into. In a way, it almost feels like she’s back at school, working late into the night on homework at the library.

The work helps to keep her mind off of things. There are still so many questions left unanswered. While she’s busy working, she doesn’t have time to think about what might have happened to Claude and Hilda, doesn’t have time to think about the fact that Delilah is probably wondering why the hell she hasn’t written recently, and she most certainly doesn’t have time to think about the fact she’s directly aiding the woman who started a continent-wide war.

No— Lysithea is doing this for herself. If it happens to help Edelgard as well, then that’s not her problem. At this point, lashing out would not only be incredibly ineffective, but also pointless. With Faerghus as good as gone and Derdriu under imperial control, even if Lysithea _were_ to fight, there’s nothing and nobody left to fight _for_. There’s nobody left to fight for anymore but herself, and if she doesn’t hurry it up, she’ll lose that battle too.

She’s about halfway through a particularly riveting account of early crestology in old Enbarr when an unsealed letter is thrown right on top of the page she’s reading.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to send this,” says Hubert.

Lysithea had fully expected that her mail would be looked through. That isn’t a surprise. It’s not like anything in her letters right now are all that much of a secret, but the garbled slang she usually writes to Delilah in could be seen as a code to someone who doesn’t know what it means.

Lysithea grabs the letter, skimming through it before glancing back up towards Hubert and raising an eyebrow.

She’s well aware of the fact he has no way of determining the contents of her letter, but some petty part of her takes immense pleasure in playing dumb and watching him squirm.

“Oh? Why not? I was informed that I’d be allowed to send mail so long as it didn’t contain sensitive information. That was part of the agreement, was it not?”

“It was,” agrees Hubert. “However, as I cannot determine whether or not your letter contains anything suspect, I cannot in good faith allow it to be sent.”

He glances towards the letter in her her hands and gives a slight smirk that wishes she could slap right off of his stupid face.

“Thus, I’ve returned it to you,” says Hubert. “Of course, if you were to rewrite it suitably, I’d be happy to _personally_ make sure it’s sent off.”

“Ah,” she says, “unfortunately, if I were to rewrite it _suitably_ , I’m afraid some of my friends would think I was coerced into writing it. They’re a bit paranoid, and if I were to all of a sudden change my habits, it’d be awfully suspect. I’m sure you understand what I’m talking about, yes?”

“I do, yes,” says Hubert. “And I trust you understand why I cannot allow you to send that letter.”

“I do, yes,” she echoes, and the slight twitch of his eyebrows at her remark is _immensely_ satisfying. “And that’s fine. I’ll just write another one then.”

She can practically feel Hubert’s scrutiny as she grabs a fresh piece of paper and starts to pen out a new letter.

He stays mostly silent until she pens the last line, and he frowns.

“I cannot allow you to send that either.”

“Why not?” She gives him an unimpressed look. “It’s a clear compromise. My letter will be thrown out if not for the bit at the end, and it’s just one line.”

“All it takes is one line to spill state secrets,” he says.

She snorts. “Like what? That you’re insufferable and take your coffee blacker than your soul? Even if I did have any state secrets _to_ spill, I wouldn’t be able to spill them in one line, Hubert. I made a deal with the emperor, and I expect its terms to be upheld.”

His eyes narrow and his frown doesn’t lift, but he takes the letter without another word.

It’s clear he still doesn’t trust her. He likely didn’t approve of this deal from the start. (Not that it was his decision to make.) It’s fine, though. She doesn’t trust him either. So long as he stays out of her way, and she stays out of his, it won’t matter.

Some things never change, it seems.

* * *

There’s something about Volkhard von Arundel that just makes Lysithea’s skin _crawl_. She doesn’t know exactly what it is— be it the way he carries himself as if he thinks himself above everyone, the way he watches everyone in the room with cold eyes, or his downright _freaky_ magical signature. 

It’s probably a mix of all three, now that she thinks about it, but the last one especially makes her hair stand on end. Due to its nature, dark magic tends to have a dark, oppressive aura, and it’s something that most of its users tend to carry around with them. A little bit of your affinity tends to worm its way into your signature no matter what you do.

Arundel’s is similar in that regard, with the tinge of corrosive energy from years of dark magic use. The problem is it’s amplified and mixed with something that Lysithea can’t put her finger on—in a way that isn’t natural. It’s… almost something akin to a magical signature Frankenstein, bits and pieces shoved together where they don’t belong.

The first time she passes by him in the halls, he is alone and he doesn’t give her a second glance. His signature gives her goosebumps as she walks by, but she’s far too busy to stop and investigate. 

The second time Lysithea passes by him in the halls, he is accompanied by the Emperor herself and he does. Lysithea has her arms full of tomes and texts she’d grabbed from Linhardt’s office, and she almost drops every single one of them at the comment he makes as she passes them by.

“Why, El, you never told me you knew the prototype.” He pauses briefly and gives Lysithea a brief glance over his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware she was still alive. How quaint.”

Lysithea freezes.

_The prototype?_

Lysithea’s stomach twists, and she turns around ready to spew one of the slew of questions on the tip of her tongue, but stops. It’s clear by Edelgard’s slight frown and tense shoulders that the man in front of her is not what he seems. He’s dangerous—dangerous to even the ruler of a nearly unified Fodlan. 

_Prototype._

Lysithea can feel her arms tighten around the stack of books in her arms.

_Prototype._

It’s clear from his words that he knows. No— he doesn’t just know, he was _involved_ in it. One of the monsters of Lysithea’s nightmares stands right in front of her.

_Prototype._

And after all the dreams she’s had of revenge, all the times she’d imagined vengeance via Dark Spikes, she can’t seem to do much more than stand there like a deer in headlights.

“I believe you said you were in a hurry, didn’t you, _Uncle_?” asks Edelgard. “Perhaps you should harass the castle residents at another time.”

“I would hardly say that I’m harassing anyone,” he says, turning back around, “but you are correct that I am in a rush. I simply thought it interesting, that’s all. Shall we continue on our way, _dear niece_?”

Lysithea and Edelgard lock eyes briefly before Edelgard turns back around, and although no words are spoken, the message is clear.

_Later._

Lysithea has waited for answers for a long time now. She can wait a tiny bit more.


	11. Chapter 11

As it turns out, later isn’t that day. It’s quite difficult to get an audience with the Emperor, even when she’s expecting you. (In retrospect, the fact that Lysithea had even gotten the chance to make a deal with her was nothing short of a miracle.)

She never does get direct answers to some of her questions, but Volkhard’s rather conspicuous disappearance and the boxes and boxes of files that are procured for her and Linhardt about a week later speak miles. What’s inside those files speaks even more.

Each page is neatly labeled and dated, numbered and orderly. If one weren’t looking closely, you would think it to be an above board research study. (At least, it meets most of the nitpicky guidelines her chem teacher had drilled into everyone’s heads what feels like so long ago now.)

Her stomach twists halfway through the first folder. Diagram after diagram, sheet after sheet of things she does not remember, but her body does. She swears the scars burn a little bit the further she reads.

Lysithea doesn’t know whose record this is. She knows subject two was a boy, he was seven, and he had never made it out of the first procedure. She doesn’t know his name. As neatly kept as the records are, names are very pointedly left out. No— apparently names are not something they had deemed worth writing down.

Two, four, five, and six never made it past the first procedure. One, three, and seven survived through the first, but not long enough to make it to the second. Eight and nine died mid-procedure two, and ten died shortly after. Number by number, page by page, the bodycount of children grows ever higher.

 _“We’ve made significant improvement with our process,”_ reads the notes in eleven’s file, _“we’ve now got a near one-hundred percent survival rate for the first procedure. The second is proving far more difficult, but with more practice, I’m sure we’ll get it eventually.”_

 _“With more practice,”_ it had read, as if they were perfecting a cake recipe instead of tearing children apart from the inside out. To make things worse, the writer seems almost _cheery_ about everything. 

_“I’m so excited to try the new approach we came up with! In theory, it should increase our success chances by a considerable amount.”_

It didn’t.

Seven more join the total with their new and improved approach, six more after the next, and another four after that. It took twenty eight dead for them to get their first—and last—survivor of the batch. 

File 29 is by far the hardest to read because Lysithea already knows how this one ends. She knows how this one ends, because she lived it.

Smack dab in between the lab notes is a neatly written, and then scratched out time of death.

 _“I was too hasty in assuming the subject had died. Clerical error,”_ reads the note next to it. It’s neatly signed and dated, as if it was a small error like simply putting down the wrong number. 

There’s a lot of data after that. Numbers and charts and diagrams galore, until it stops with one note. 

_“The subject’s crest combination is unstable, affinities conflicting. Life expectancy estimated 5 years maximum, likely less. With the proper combination and matching affinities we can likely guarantee a higher rate of success and a lower chance of rejection.”_

Lysithea has heard of magical affinities, and it’s definitely a known fact that people with certain crests tended to drift towards certain elements. Crests _themselves_ having affinities, however, isn’t something she’s ever heard of—and for good reason. In order for something have a magical affinity, it has to be _alive_.

_If what’s written on that file is true…_

She needs to have a talk with Linhardt, it seems.

* * *

“Read this,” says Lysithea, tossing the folder she was holding on top of Linhardt’s desk. A few papers go flying and fall to the floor, but she doesn’t care. “Tell me I’m not crazy for thinking it implies what I think it might.”

“Was throwing it like that really necessary?” he grumbles, reaching over to grab the folder and flipping it open. “You’ve made a mess.”

“Your workspace was already a mess,” Lysithea says, as she moves some papers off of a nearby chair. “A few papers on the floor won’t make much of a difference.”

“Not true,” he replies, but doesn’t elaborate more as he starts to read.

Her foot starts to tap on the ground without her even realizing it. It’s an old habit she can’t seem to ditch that weasels its way into the open when her mind races.

Linhardt raises his eyebrows at something and looks up briefly. “This is your file,” he says.

“Yes,” she confirms. “But that’s not the part I’m concerned with. Flip towards the end.”

He does, and Lysithea waits as he reads. Linhardt’s always been a fast reader, and it doesn’t take him long for his eyes to reach the bottom of the page. He raises his eyebrows.

“Well… this is rather unusual, isn’t it,” he says.

Lysithea can’t quite tell whether that’s supposed to be a statement or a question until he continues after a long pause.

“I think we may need to redefine some of the core principles of crestology if this is true,” he says, running a hand across his face with a sigh. “It’s going to be quite a lot of work, but at least we’ll likely be getting somewhere.”

“Cheers,” says Lysithea, miming raising a mug in the air. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You don’t drink,” Linhardt points out. 

“I don’t,” she confirms. “Figure of speech.”

“Oh.” Linhardt gives a slight nod. “I assumed so, but it was worth confirming. Alcohol consumption could skew our data if we didn’t factor it in, after all.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Lysithea agrees. 

“Indeed we would not.” 

Linhardt places the file neatly to the side, pulls out his notebook from under a few scattered files, and flips to a clean page. 

“Assuming this document is correct, crests either are or _were_ part of something alive,” he starts.

“There’s also the possibility that the fundamental laws of magic are incorrect,” Lysithea adds. “But it is unlikely, as records of magic have been around far longer than crests were first recorded.”

“Then we can cross _the rules of magic being wrong_ off the list of possibilities,” Linhardt agrees. “The rest, though, will most definitely need further looking into.”

He pauses for a moment.

“However, while an interesting discovery, this file also has a lot more to offer. With this, we may be able to reverse engineer what they did, and we’re on a bit of a tighter time frame for that.”

“We are indeed,” she agrees. “So it was really quite kind of them to keep such meticulous records, allowing us to hopefully fix what they did that much faster.”

“Cheers,” Linhardt replies, face deadpan. “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

It takes some time, but finally, _finally_ , there’s a breakthrough. Like with everything good, though, there’s always a catch. In this case, the catch is that the solution to her lifelong problem is _extremely_ risky.

“There’s a large chance this could backfire spectacularly,” Linhardt admits, as he glances over the files spread over his desk. “Usually before we’d even think about bringing things to human trials we’d do extensive testing, but for obvious reasons, that isn’t possible, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I’m aware,” she says, nonplussed. “Are you simply going to recite to me what I already know, Linhardt? I helped you _design_ this procedure, I’m well aware of the risks that come with it.”

“I know you are,” he says, “but I believe with more time we can improve it. I think you’re rushing things.”

He’s right, Lysithea _is_ rushing. Everything she’s ever dreamed of for years on end is dangling just within reach. Who _wouldn’t_ want to just reach out and grab it?

“And? I’d rather not wait around and risk missing my chance.” 

“By not waiting, you may be missing another, _better_ one,” Linhardt points out.

“We have no way of knowing that for sure,” she counters. “I’d far rather have the assurance of a chance than the possibility of none.”

Linhardt frowns. “I still don’t think that this is a smart choice, Lysithea. I still believe we should wait.”

“Good thing it’s not your choice to make then,” she replies. “I’m tired of waiting, Linhardt. Everything I have ever done has been waiting. Waiting for more information, waiting to find something, _anything_ , to give me more time.”

“Waiting and waiting—-and for _what_ ?” She lets out a bitter chuckle. “Just to turn down a small chance of being able to be _done_ with all of this because I might die? Newsflash, genius, I’m dying anyways!”

Linhardt looks up, but does not reply.

She pauses. 

“I’m sorry. That was harsher than I intended, and not fair to you—especially considering everything you’ve done to help.,” she shakes her head. “It’s just… I’m tired. I want this, Linhardt. I _really_ want this.”

“I know you do.” He sighs. “Who wouldn’t, in your place? The part of me that is your friend will support your decision no matter what, but the part of me that is a scholar still thinks you are being a stubborn fool.”

“I’ve always been a stubborn fool. That‘s something that hasn’t changed and I won’t be changing now.” Lysithea crosses her arms. “My decision remains the same. I want the procedure. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, then I go out on _my_ terms _._ ”

“I’ve already made my opinion on the matter clear, but I will respect your decision regardless.”

Linhardt reaches into one of his desk drawers and pulls out the small notebook he uses as a calendar, flipping through it with a frown.

“The earliest I can have the preparations done is Monday.”

“Monday it is then,” she confirms. 

* * *

Lysithea’s not sure whether it’s due to the coughing or her racing mind, but Sunday night she finds herself wide awake.

Everything just feels… surreal, as if she’ll close her eyes, wake up, and be right back to square one again. She doesn't quite know what to think. She’s been focused on finding a solution for so long, and honestly, it feels a bit anticlimactic. 

It’s not like the storybooks—there’s no magic cure-all ancient artifacts, no mysterious mythical beings to grant her wishes, no visions from a deity—it’s just science. Science mixed with magic and medicine and research, but still science, just like it had been before. The only difference is that this time it worked.

(Or rather she hopes it will, but that particular decision is not hers to make. That one’s up to the Goddess, or fate, or whatever the hell makes the world turn here.)

At this point, it is what it is and what will be will be. If it works, it works and she knows she made the right decision. If it doesn’t, she won’t ever know, will she? She won’t be there to find out. 

Lysithea isn’t having doubts, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t wonder what happens if everything goes wrong. Sure, she’ll die, but then what? This whole stupid cycle repeats again? 

The question of what happens after death is one that humankind has wondered for ages, but she doubts quite as many have questioned what happens the second time around.

As strange as it sounds, the answer to that question is the same as the answer to what she plans on doing if it _does_ work out— she doesn’t know. Lysithea had never _ever_ expected to get this far, and she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Without the constant pressure of needing to make every minute count, what will she do? 

Maybe she’ll become a woodworker, or a rancher. Something about working with your hands had always seemed appealing. As far as the latter went, she’d always been limited by her physique, but who knows what might be possible in the future.

Time has a funny way of changing things. If you told the Lysithea of many years ago that the Adrestian Empire would storm Garreg Mach, she would have laughed in your face and called you a liar. If you had told the Lucy of many years ago that she would get a second life, she would have told you to be more realistic and to stop joking around.

She can’t say she knows what tomorrow will bring, but she has until tomorrow morning to figure that out. Might as well make the most of it.

Lysithea pulls out a worn, dog-eared copy of a vampire novel and begins to read.

* * *

The sun is high in the sky by the time she goes to sleep. 

By time she wakes up, the moon replaces it instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show's over folks, this is it. I know there's still a lot left unanswered, but that's on purpose.
> 
> I've had this ending planned out since... about roughly when I started this story, and honestly? I never thought I'd get this far. I started this as a completely self-indulgent project, and never really expected much of anyone to read it, so to those who did, thank you. Thank you for your support and your kind words and your encouragement. 
> 
> This is largely unedited and pretty much straight up brain to paper, so I apologize for any typos. 
> 
> Stay safe ya'll. Best regards, and thanks again for sticking with me.


End file.
